The Curious Case of the Two Detectives
by letyoursoul
Summary: Sherlock Holmes is in hiding, and bored. Nancy Drew is called to London by a family friend to help with a cold case. But a bigger plot is bringing them together. [collab work by letyoursoul and constantmediocracy on tumblr]
1. Chapter 1

Nancy Drew (gameverse)  
Sherlock (BBCverse)  
Post Reichenbach. As much as I ship Johnlock, in this fic, they are just good friends. Will eventually become Sherlock x Nancy. This work is a collaboration by me and Friendlyfaithplate. Enjoy, and please leave feedback! :)

* * *

Chapter 1

One of the many things Nancy Drew adored about London was the weather. The titian-haired girl shoved her hands into the pockets of her fitted coat, burrowing the lower part of her face further into her huge scarf. The wind nipped at her cheeks, flushing them a brilliant shade of rose. The girl extended her gait as she read the street sign at her left and found that she was, indeed, on the correct path. Nancy had gladly agreed to travel abroad to meet a good family friend, who was currently under a great deal of turmoil. The middle-aged woman had a son who was recently murdered.

_"Some policemen came out to see the body before it was trucked away, but they said they couldn't find the cause of death then, no blows to the head or anything. I really don't trust that lot. Nancy, I hate to bother you, but would you come out and help? I trust you more than them tenfold." The woman softly wept, her West London accent slurring as she hiccupped and sobbed. Nancy cooed reassuringly._

_"Of course I will, Bridget!"_

A lump began to form in her throat as she approached the correct address. Nancy had hardly ever dealt with murders, nor had she ever really been around dead bodies. But how could she say no? The woman had been so clearly distraught, and Nancy could never say no to a perplexing and interesting case.

She leaped up the steps to the door of the flat and rapped her knuckle against the wood. She stepped back and surveyed her surroundings. The road was relatively busy, but not as ridiculous as Trafalgar Square had been. A few couples walked down the road hand-in-hand, causing Nancy to wrinkle her nose slightly.

Her thoughts instantly drifted to boyfriend Ned Nickerson, who had fought with her in protest about her leaving.

_"I'm so sick of waiting for you to come back to River Heights, Nancy. You run around globe-trotting, I'm stuck at home… we have this discussion ALL the time, do you not understand?"_

_"Um, you could go, I guess? Maybe… She's paying for my ticket and stuff, I can pay for you-"_

_"That isn't the point. No matter what, I think I'll always be one step behind you."_

A door creaking ripped Nancy from her distractions, and a portly woman squeaked out. The woman was once quite beautiful, her lovely brown hair fading to a soft grey. She wrapped her arms around Nancy's middle and squeezed tightly.

"Oh, look at you, bless! You've grown so much since I last saw you, you were such a wee thing. Look at you now! Good Lord, I am getting old…"

Nancy laughed and reciprocated the hug, rubbing Bridget's back. She pulled away and slapped her hands on Nancy's shoulders, beaming up.

"Please come in! I've just put the kettle on."

Nancy followed her into the flat and relaxed on the nearest couch, stretching out her legs and sighing with happiness because she could finally relax. She closed her eyes and leaned back, lolling her head to the left. Her flight had been long and tiring and she began to feel her inability to sleep on the plane creeping up on her.

"So where is your luggage, sweetheart?" Bridget yelled back into the living room from the kitchen. Nancy shot open her eyes and groaned loudly.

"Oh, hasn't gotten here quite yet. The airline said it'll be here soon and they'll ship it. I gave them your address."

Bridget tutted as she carried in a plate of cookies, accompanied with a mug of tea.

"Made the British way, along with a few biscuits. You must be starving." She said as she laid the platter in front of Nancy. She moaned and grappled the mug's handle, draining the hot liquid down her throat. The warmth felt good travelling through her shivering body. As Nancy shoved the cookies into her mouth, Bridget let out a deep sigh. The girl looked up and followed the direction of Bridget's eyes, which were staring out the nearby window. A police car had since pulled up, and out popped a man with salt-and-pepper hair, accompanied by a young woman with tendrils of bouncy curls.

"That'd be him, Detective Inspector Lestrade," Bridget narrowed her eyes. "That woman he's with is a little insufferable, she is." Nancy chuckled and finished her drink, leaning forward to peck Bridget's cheeks.

"Thank you, that was excellent!"

Bridget smiled and opened her mouth, but was interrupted by the doorbell. She rolled her eyes and strode over to the front door. Nancy stood up and smoothed the front of her skirt, eyeing the Detective Inspector and his assistant in a mirror. The woman had a curled lip as she observed the small apartment, making Nancy roll her eyes, just as Bridget had before. The trio entered the living room, a questioning look donning the pair.

"… and this is just a family friend."

"Nancy Drew, very nice to meet you." Nancy smiled. She walked over and grasped each of their hands individually. If she were to be working somewhat near the police, she might as well put off a good impression.

"Greg Lestrade, this is Sally Donovan." Sally nodded towards Nancy, clearly observing her outfit. Nancy kept the smile plastered on her face, trying her best to fight past the woman's catty behavior. Sally's right eyebrow slowly began to rise.

"Your name sounds really familiar."

_Oh, no._

"Oh, quite possibly… Erm…" Nancy bit the inside of her lower lip. What was she going to say? How would she even describe her job title?

"I'm kind of an amateur detective?"

_Smooth move, Drew… _Nancy thought, mentally smacking herself.

"Amateur? Oh God, Greg…" Sally turned and looked at Greg with a fearful look. He returned a knowing one, and smiled a wary smile at Nancy.

"Oh, we know somebody who… I guess he isn't an amateur, per say, but he's… different. Works with us on some cases." Greg chuckled nervously, exchanging his smile from Nancy to Bridget. Nancy sat back down, with Greg and Sally joining her. Bridget sat down in a loveseat that rested perpendicular to them and sighed.

"Alright," Greg began. "We observed his body, and right now we're getting toxicology tests done. We just have a few questions for you."

Bridget nodded and crossed her legs, nervously playing with the hem of her blouse.

"Did Joshua ever have any enemies while he was in school?"

Bridget scoffed and sat back in her seat.

"I should hope not! He was always well behaved, well liked. He had lots of friends, played a lot of football, had a nice girlfriend… he was a normal young man."

The tension was very dense, causing Nancy to fidget uncomfortably in her spot.

_This is going to be a long day._

Sherlock Holmes had been dead exactly six months, and he was tremendously bored. The shabby little flat near Victoria Park wasn't exactly in a quiet neighborhood, but it was still too quiet for the detective's preference. He found himself constantly on edge, restless, staring out the windows although he had nowhere to go; he couldn't go much of anywhere these days. It was unlikely he would be recognized in this part of London, but he was still taking a great risk just being there. But Sherlock Holmes was not one to run from danger. He'd rather be somewhat near those he was protecting with his "death," watching from his distance, and always searching for the last loose ends of Moriarty's plans, so that he could tie up those loose ends, very neatly, and maybe drop them out of a window once or thrice.

It was a cold day, and he was in a bathrobe, curled in his corner chair (it had mysteriously disappeared from 221 B much to John Watson's astonishment; many thanks due to the homeless network). He was bored, bored, bored. Long fingers clicked along the sides of his cup of tea that was more a prop to be held than a beverage to be consumed. Finally, he slammed the cup down on the windowsill and dropped his forehead against the glass. A police car shot by; not an unusual sight in these parts. The little jolt of adrenaline wasn't enough for Sherlock. He had had absolutely enough of laying around dormant, with only Molly to text and anonymous tips to call into the Lestrade's office, but not enough that he'd start to wonder. He needed a case. And he would be damned if he didn't find one.

He grabbed the newspaper roughly and tore through the pages, his eyes flicking wildly over the useless parts, deleting them from his mind as soon as they entered. And then—like a glorious beacon of light through his six months of darkness—a murder.

"Oh, this is perfect, this is wonderful!" He told his skull, which had also mysteriously vanished from the flat. John Watson had heaved a huge sigh, annoyed at the apparent Sherlock-hating burglars who wanted to sell his things on the internet or something. Sherlock tried very, very hard not to think of John. But sometimes he accidentally called the skull by his name.

He read:

"A young man was found dead today in central London, on the steps of his mother's home. No cause of death could be determined. Any persons wishing to report suspicious activity blah blah blah YES! This is what we need." The skull voiced its agreement with respectful silence.

"I'll have to keep out of sight, do all my work after hours, reach a verdict, and send in an anonymous tip. Excellent. And then when I've finished off Moriarty's men, they'll know the truth about this case, as well. Everyone will see…" He dragged his hands roughly over his face for a moment, wondering for a moment if his need for recognition would be his undoing. Well, he was already undone, what more could possibly go wrong?

He would go to the scene of the crime. As a casual passerby, strolling along, perhaps snap a discreet picture or two? He was Sherlock Holmes. He could solve a case with his eyes closed. "Let's go, John!" he called, before he throat caught and he sobered up a bit. He left the skull where it was, wound his scarf ceremoniously about his neck, and strode toward the front door of the apartment building. His hand had just pressed against the wood when an envelope zipped under the door and hit his shoe.

A pair of dark eyebrows crinkled intensely. This sort of thing should not be happening to a man in hiding. He would have flung the door open, but was frozen in place as he heard footsteps scampering away at an alarming speed. The pacing of a child, he thought, so someone is having a child do their work for them?

Scooping up the envelope in his gloved hand, he considered checking it properly for safety, but instead just tore into the damn thing. He set the envelope aside and decided he would test for prints later. Inside, a single slip of paper read in typewritten print:

Crime Files Archive  
Room 5; 22  
-A fan

He instinctually went to work. Tapped the paper on his tongue. Regular printer paper, common. Sniffed it. Modern typewriter ink. Tried to smudge it. No, long since dried. Not wrinkled at all. This was a meticulously planned note. But directions to a police file? Why? He had no way of knowing what the file was just by looking at the filing system numbers. Only that it was from the past year. Curiosity burned from within so fiercely, any sense of restraint was reduced to ashes.

He waited for those hours that dwell in the deepest part of nighttime when anything could be done in secret. And then he slipped out into the street and hailed a cab, riding only part of the way to Scotland Yard, and walking the rest. The night was particularly cold, but there was very little activity on the streets at this hour, and Sherlock enjoyed the solitude of his own mind. The emptiness of the space beside him as he walked briskly on, alone. He reminded himself again and again that he wasn't lonely, that he wasn't capable of such things. Still, it was nice to at least have a sentient wall to bounce ideas off of.

He turned up his coat collar—a new coat to avoid recognition, but still long and dark—and darted nimbly around the back of the building, knowing his way to a vent shaft that would lead into the archives room. He looked warily around him before ducking behind the heating and air conditioning outdoor unit and found removing the screws to the vent all too easy. Silently, he slid off the cover and entered the air duct.

It wasn't the most silent way to travel, and his knees scraping along made a terrible rumbling metallic sound, and he gritted his teeth the whole way to the archive room. Then he dropped in and grinned at himself for a moment, feeling like quite a fantastic success.

The room was dark, so he clicked on his torch, sweeping the beam slowly around shelf after shelf of case files. He made his way back to room 5, sliding a credit card through the door slat to unlock each one on the way. The beam of the torch whipped over the files, trying to get an idea of which way the numbers went, when suddenly, the door in front of him began to click. The lock was turning! Or, maybe it wasn't. Sherlock froze, hiding himself in the shadows, and listening as someone fiddled for quite some time with the door. He would never be able to run away in time. A frantic plan formed, and he unwound his scarf, ready to use it to smother the intruder to unconsciousness after they discovered him. They'd wake up and have no idea he was ever there. But what was going on? The clicking continued. And then, a frustrated little grunt, and the clatter of a metal object dropping to the floor.

Someone was picking the lock.

Sherlock's eyes widened as the door finally opened, and he peered from behind a shelf as a young woman entered, dressed all in black, with titian hair and clever blue eyes, looking almost as determined to be there as Sherlock imagined he must look. Although at the moment, he just looked extremely confused.


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

The apartment was finally quiet, save for a few echoing snores that reverberated off the walls from Bridget's bedroom. Nancy perched herself on the edge of her bed, which resided in the nearby guest room. She tugged and lifted her white blouse up and off and began to rummage through her overnight bag.

_Thank God I have you,_ Nancy thought with a smile as she looked down. She couldn't go anywhere without her beloved purse; especially since it contained her journal, lock picking kit, wallet, phone, phone card, laptop…

She began to slowly and reluctantly pull out each item she wouldn't need, and finally paused as she reached the black sweatshirt and pants she had stored. She smiled wickedly as she began to fully undress and slid on her black disguise. Nancy sucked in a deep breath and stood up straight, crossing her arms as she thought about her game plan. She had no idea what she was even going to do, where she was going, or what she was even looking for. She simply shrugged and stuffed her most important valuables into her purse, and slowly crept out the room, silently shutting the bedroom door behind her.

As she made her way down the stairs, she paused. A shadow lingered at the doorstep, and then _whoosh, _a manila envelope slid underneath the door.

"What on Earth?" Nancy whispered, tip-toeing her way over to the envelope. She fingered it gently and slid her thumb underneath the fold. It was flat, containing a thin piece of paper and what appeared to be a hand-drawn map, both on regular old printer paper. Nancy cocked her head, the corners of her lips turning up. She knew mystery would find her, as it always does. She flipped over the piece of paper first, and narrowed her eyes as she read.

_New Scotland Yard_

_Broadway, SW1H 0BG_

_Crime Files Archive_

_Room 5; 22_

_Enter through the back, you will see._

_-A fan_

Nancy wrinkled her nose and observed the map.

"This must be a map of New Scotland Yard…" She whispered to herself. She sighed softly and slipped out the front door cautiously, quickly observing around each corner to make sure she wasn't going to get jumped, or kidnapped, or assaulted in any way… Goodness knows she's had her handful of frightful events.

As the strawberry blonde made her way down the street, she pulled out her map of London, and quickly spotted the Scotland Yard address. She wasn't quite sure _why_ this "fan" of hers even included the address; it said so right on the map and pointed it out as a landmark. If they were a real fan, they would probably know that Nancy was well prepared. Did Nancy even have any fans? Typically, when she's approached by "fans", they are people who she's wronged before. To be fair, however, the massive amounts of evil-doers she's encountered weren't exactly the brightest.

After a bit of walking, Nancy finally made her way at the large and lovely building. She paused momentarily to watch the pedestrians making their way around. Quite a few looked homeless, the rest appeared to be young adults out on the town. Nancy laughed to herself as she thought of her two best friends, Bess Marvin and George Fayne. She missed them terribly and thought about how much both would have loved coming to London with her.

_"Nancy, __**please**__ find us cute boys!" Bess said, groaning as she took a large sip of her milkshake. George promptly slapped her cousin on the shoulder._

_"You only care about boys, Bess! Wouldn't you be interested in the architecture or the fascinating history behi-"_

_"Fascinating? Please, George," Bess said, scoffing. "It is anything but interesting."_

Nancy grinned and took in a deep breath. She checked the note again, just to be sure of how she should make her entrance, and began to round the back of the tall building. She paced along the wall, until she found a vent with its cover unscrewed.

_Weird…_ Nancy thought. She shrugged and shoved her hand into her purse, just making sure that yes, the pepper spray her father had insisted on her bringing was there. The girl slid into the vent feet first with ease and slowly snuck her way across the metallic tube. She checked her map and grinned broadly as she realized she had reached the correct spot. Feet first, she slid down and landed on the tile floor, a soft thump erupting under her feet.

The archive room stood right in front of her, causing Nancy to smirk a little bit. Her adrenaline was pumping like crazy. This was the best part of solving mysteries – running around on her tip-toes, sneaking around in the night. Nancy jolted the handle quietly, but the door did not budge.

"It's locked," She whispered to herself and began to fumble in her bag until she found her trusty lock-picking kit. She bent down and rested on her knees, placing three small picks in the lock. She methodically began to work, her whole body shaking in trepidation. Her tremor caused her to drop one of the picks, making Nancy groan under her breath. If anyone was around, the chinking sound of the metal pick hitting the floor would definitely alert them to her presence. Nancy listened closely, trying to detect any other bodies wandering around the halls of Scotland Yard.

Finally, she heard the soft clicking of the lock releasing itself. A quick fist-pump in the air, and a soft nudge, the door slowly and silently opened. Nancy snuck into the room and shut it silently, digging into her purse for the small flashlight she kept attached to her keys. A sound hit her ears, sending an alarming signal to her brain. She dropped the keys inside her bag, and reached for the pepper spray that rested near the top. The footsteps padded closer, and when the perpetrator was at the right distance, Nancy turned on her heel and released the potent mixture from the can.

A pair of ridiculously blue eyes met hers, until they were forcibly shut close due to the stinging concoction.

* * *

Sherlock may have made an embarrassing yelp when the pepper spray hit his eyes, but he deleted that information for the sake of his own dignity. When he was finally done not-shrieking, he managed to force out the words, "Who the bloody hell are you?" His voice was directed into the floor, as he was curled awkwardly against a shelf, violently rubbing at his eyes.

"You're only making it worse," said the voice, sarcastic, in-control. "It'll wear off if you just wait."

Sherlock took a steadying breath and forced himself to look up at her, a blurry, red, painful shadow in the darkness. His torch was casting a light menacingly silhouetting her from where it had rolled when he dropped it. He blinked hard, and waited.

"Now, let's start again, shall we? You sent me a note, and here I am. Who are you and what do you want?"

Sherlock was beginning to regain his senses then, and he could detect the slight overcompensation in her voice, the small lilt of fear, the just-barely-there edge of uncertainty, masked by her confidence. He laughed. The young woman was not amused.

"Well?" She flashed the light in his face and he squinted, rubbed his eyes, and found that his vision was clearing. When she lowered her flashlight, he saw that she was quite young, perhaps a bit younger than him, tall, slender, with striking red hair. She carried a small over-the-shoulder bag, but nothing else. She did not appear to be any threat to him, aside from that damned spray can she still gripped in her other hand.

"If I told you who I was you wouldn't believe me, or you would cause me a great deal of trouble. What's really important here is that I did not send you a note, nor do I want anything from you. I, too, received a note, and here I am." Sherlock tried his best to flash his winning smile, but it was difficult to smile through the wince of pepper spray pain that was currently contorting his features. He hoped she felt really, really guilty.

"You got a note?" the girl chirped. "From who?"

"Do you really think I know?"  
"What's going on here?"  
"If you would give me a moment of silence, maybe I could think."  
"Well excuse me, next time I'm—"  
"Stop. Talking."

Sherlock grabbed his torch, hopped to his feet and began pacing the enclosure, swinging the beam this way and that, trying to piece together the missing parts of this equation. However, the red head, who had broken out a magnifying glass and was examining the files on the shelves, was profoundly distracting.

"Who are you?" he asked finally.

"My name is Nancy Drew. And you are?"  
"Not important. I don't care about names. Who are you? Why are you important?"  
A look flashed on her face that Sherlock didn't bother to decipher.  
"I'm…kind of an amateur detective. I figured someone was baiting me to a case. It happens to me a lot, actually—"

"You're an _amateur_ _detective_?" he spat out the words like they were a ridiculous joke. There was that look on her face again. Curious.

"Look, mister. If you don't want to at least try to be civil to me, I can just stop answering your questions and call the police right now to report a break in at Scotland Yard, and then neither of us will get our answers. Is that what you want?"

Sherlock stared at her, aghast. A long moment seemed to elapse. "The name's Sherlock Holmes. I'm supposed to be dead. I can tell by your accent that you're from the states, more specifically the mid-west, so you wouldn't be familiar with my story. So I must assert to you that it is of the utmost importance that I remain dead, and that not a single living soul is made aware that I am, in fact, breathing. Do you understand?" He didn't wait for her to answer; the look of shock on her face was enough. "Good. Now, we have our first lead," he fell easily into a monologue and he felt strangely relieved to have someone to talk to again. "I am the world's only consulting detective and you are a…apparently well known…amateur detective. Someone has brought us here in collaboration, for a precise reason. What is that reason, Nancy?"

Nancy faltered a bit. "Our biggest fans wanted to see us working together?" She raised an eyebrow.

"Fans…your note was signed the same way then." He was scanning the files as I spoke, counting through the numbers and letters and searching for the file from his note. When he located the correct envelope, he hesitated a moment.

"I have a feeling our answer will lie in this file, the number given to me." He watched her face light up as she shuffled closer to him, glowing with a kind of fervent enthusiasm that felt a lot like looking in a mirror. "Well, open it!" she urged.

When the pages parted in his hands, and the information surged through the filter of his mind, only one word really made any difference.

Moriarty.


	3. Chapter 3

A locked jaw, flared nostrils, eyebrows furrowing… Sherlock displayed all the visible signs of shock and anger. Nancy leaned over and darted her eyes quickly across the file.

_James Moriarty_

- - _Richard Brook_

- _- Pronounced deceased January 2012; found dead on top St. Bartholomew's Hospital_

- - _Death by suicide; gun pointed into mouth, bullet travelled out back_

- _- Connection to Sherlock Hol-_

Sherlock promptly slammed the file shut and looked down at Nancy, narrowing his eyes.

"Do you mind?"

"Um, yes? You're forgetting I received a note too," Nancy said with a groan. She reached her hands into her bag and fumbled around until she found the envelope and handed it to him. He grunted and observed the package and its contents.

"Shame, it probably has your prints all over it."

Nancy rolled her eyes and grabbed James Moriarty's file out of Sherlock's hand and continued reading.

"So this guy, James Moriarty…"

"He called himself a 'consulting criminal'. My greatest enemy and he took me down with him," Sherlock mumbled. He darted over to the cabinet next to him and slid open the drawer. Nancy closely watched him thumb through, until he reached the file labeled '56'. "The final problem…"

Sherlock slowly slid out the folder and touched it gently. This man was the oddest person Nancy had ever met, which was saying something. He was a very blasé person who didn't care about much, but he was also what Bess would refer to as "a total drama queen". She stuffed Moriarty's file into her purse.

"Why are you doing that?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know. I figure that we'll need it eventually. What is that file you just grabbed?"

"We?" Sherlock laughed nervously as he avoided Nancy's question and pinched the corner of the folder, preparing to flip it open.

"Yeah, 'we'." Nancy cocked an eyebrow. "Just tell me what it is. I'm not going to scold you or anything."

He let out a deep sigh and ruffled his hair in frustration. "I just wanted to check…" He trailed off as he traced the outside of the folder. His eyes averted to Nancy. "Can I get a little bit more privacy?"

Nancy put her hands up and took a few steps back, leaning on the nearest cabinet that wasn't too close for her to read... whatever it was he had. Nancy huffed and drummed her fingertips on the drawers. She sighed with an undertone of laughter.

"Everything is so strange. I just came to investigate the murder of this young man I've known since he was a kid…"

The tall man froze. "The one that died on the doorsteps?"

Nancy nodded sluggishly.

"I was going to investigate that murder as well." Sherlock said with a certain measure of curiosity in his voice. He grinned from ear to ear as he turned to face Nancy. She stifled a laugh. He reminded her of a cartoon character – everything about the man was almost comical and unbelievably real. He was quite pale, obviously due to the face that he was in hiding and probably spent most of his time inside. He had a thick mass of curly black hair atop his head, accompanied with a pair of strikingly rigid cheekbones and blue eyes. He donned a black ensemble that featured a wool overcoat that barely hit his knees. The lingering smile on her face slowly faded as she began to ponder the curious circumstances.

"Wait, so somebody purposely killed Joshua, just to bring us together?" Nancy could feel her eyes bulging wide. Her heart beat against her chest. She knew Josh ever since they were kids; the fact that it was basically her fault that he was dead absolutely destroyed her. She raised her hand and covered her mouth as she shook her head in disbelief. A few cool droplets slid down her cheeks.

"If we are going to work together, please contain your emotions."

With a glare, Nancy began to diligently wipe her eyes. She slowly made her way until she was behind him and stood up on her tip-toes, attempting to read the file over his shoulder. Sherlock quickly jerked it out of her view, tucking the file under his armpit.

"None of your business," He sneered. "Honestly, if you are really that curious about me, go search my name on the internet," Sherlock looked into the corner of the room, eyes staring intently on the color of the painted walls. Nancy could have sworn she saw his lips quiver a tad, but was quickly replaced with his seemingly usual façade. "My friend, Dr. John Watson runs a blog of our old cases. You might be interested."

Nancy nodded and smiled. She reached back and patted her purse. "So, now what are we supposed to do, wait?"

Sherlock slammed the file cabinet, causing the girl to wince, and smiled broadly at her.

"I believe our 'fan' will contact us as soon as they realize we have the file," He adjusted his file and quirked his left eyebrow. "I'm assuming I can find a great wealth of information about you online, as well."

Nancy laughed and shuffled a little bit. "Possibly, but in the mean time, can we go somewhere and just… I don't know, discuss everything? I feel like I should fill you in on Joshua, and you should fill me in on this Moriarty character."

"I did 'fill you in'."

"Briefly, though. I'll buy you dinner, or, err…" Nancy checked her phone and quickly added up five hours to approximate the current time in London. "… Breakfast?"

"I don't eat while I'm working."

She expelled air from her nose exasperatedly as the two began to silently creep out of the archive room.


	4. Chapter 4

"So you're really not eating anything," Nancy deadpanned. Sherlock lifted his eyes up to meet hers for just a moment, his hands pressed together and held against his chin. Then his icy glare moved back out the window of the café. Dawn was just beginning light the city in a misty glow.

"Alright then. Doesn't bother me," she continued, unfazed, spooning through her scrambled eggs. "Now, look," her mouth was a bit full, but she went on, "clearly there's some mysterious business going on here, and we were brought together to get to the bottom of it. So we're going to work together. To start, I think you should tell me more about this Moriarty."

Sherlock was fairly certain he'd never known anyone so intrusive or so utterly at ease in his presence, and frankly it was a bit disarming. He thought perhaps he should give the girl a show of his character so she'd repel like everyone else.

"To start, Miss Drew, I think you should be careful with whom you form alliances. With the loss of your parent, probably your mother, I can understand why you've formed such overzealous confidence to compensate for your inner lack of a foundation. But I imagine your father has spoiled you into believing that you're terribly clever, and in the past your cleverness has always gotten you out of any tight spot. I want to warn you that what we're dealing with is not a game. You may have solved a thousand riddles in the past, but there are human beings in this world with minds that don't know mercy, and won't stop trying to ruin you until their dying breath." He paused, willing his heartbeat to steady, but not allowing himself to look away from Nancy's unwavering stare. "There are no second chances when you play games with people like Moriarty. You'd be better off going home immediately."

Nancy Drew stared at the other detective calmly, taking a small breath before she began. "You're wrong."

"Excuse me?"

"Your analysis of me. It's wrong. My mother _is_ dead, but it hasn't made me hard. It taught me what pain feels like, and what it means to be really broken. And my father's response taught me that even the strongest, most clever person can still feel just as deeply. And it only makes me understand people, and why they leave behind mysteries and puzzles for someone they love after they're gone. Or why some people chose to commit a crime. A little trust, understanding…it really helps in this business, I've found." She let a smirk cross her lips. "But I_ am_ clever."

Sherlock blinked at her. Had he ever been wrong before?

A tinny descending piano scale and a vibrate buzz broke both their concentration. "Sorry, that's my phone," Nancy muttered.

She answered the call without looking and pressed her cell to her ear. "Nancy Drew."

"Good morning Miss Drew." The voice was garbled, talking through a vocal-changer, low and menacing. "Just wanted to check in and let you know that I'm _right here, watching you, waiting_for the choice moment. There's no where you can run to, so don't try." The voice laughed then, a terrible, freakish chuckle. "Better stay close to him, or it might be the end for you. You won't get a medal for outsmarting me this time; you'll just get a gravestone. See you soon."

She slowly lowered the phone, a look of fear frozen over her features.

"May I ask…" Sherlock prompted. She told him what the voice said, and he listened intently, filing away every nuance, every casual word for future reference.

"What does he mean by 'this time?'" he asked finally.

"Well, let's just say there are a lot of people out there who don't like me."

"Someone you got into trouble. And now they're back to torment you."

"Sounds likely," she groaned.

"And they were inspired by Moriarty's work. A master when it comes to ruining detectives," Sherlock mumbled, almost to himself. In truth, he was so used to speaking to himself, that Nancy's actual responses were somewhat unwarranted.

"I need to think. I'm going home. Perhaps we could meet up again later." Sherlock stood and started to walk away from the table, leaving Nancy gawking after him.

"That's it? Hey, hold on! I don't even have your number. And someone just threatened me to stay close to you!"

"Not my problem." Sherlock had, of course, already looked through Nancy's phone and retrieved her number when she wasn't looking. It was a habit. He hopped in the first cab outside and disappeared.

Nancy was certain she'd never met anyone so rude, and made a mental note to ask him an annoying amount of questions later just to spite him. Grudgingly, she paid the bill and headed back to Bridget's apartment, where she let herself fall instantly into a dream-filled sleep.

Sherlock paced his apartment while holding his laptop with one hand and plucking at the keys with the other. He couldn't be bothered to sit down. He searched every aspect of Nancy Drew's public history, and was annoyed to find she didn't exist on any social media sites. _One point: Drew_, he found himself thinking. Her case record was rather impressive, for a young girl with no formal training. She seemed to find a mystery wherever she went, and never left any open ends. He was just about to read about the time she was arrested for arson when his phone rang.

Blocked number.

A little bolt of adrenaline, and he connected the call.

"Sherlock Holmes." The same garbled voice sneered. "I'd like to see what you're really worth. How much do you care about solving a case? You can answer my question my going to the doorstep, and picking up the package. Inside, you'll find the only copy of the surveillance video, missing from the night of Joshua Bennet's murder. The culprit is clearly visible, and I'm sure Scotland Yard would have no trouble putting him away. But here's the catch!" the voice laughed and sent a chill down Sherlock's spine. "Watch the tape, even once, and Nancy Drew dies. Destroy the tape, and she lives_. Good luck_."

The line died and Sherlock's eyes drifted to his front door. At this time of day, no one would have thought it suspicious if someone left a package there. He knew there was no way of tracing its origin. He slowly opened the door, picked up a brown paper package, and brought it back inside, gingerly setting it down on the end table he used for everything. Then, he climbed into his chair, pulled his knees up to his chin, and stared at the package as if it were a most engrossing film. A nagging pull from deep within was telling him to watch the tape immediately, and then send it away to the police, and enjoy his anonymous recognition as the nameless hero of the case. It was what he wanted all along. What was Nancy Drew to him? And perhaps the voice on the phone was only bluffing, and she would be safe either way. Could he risk something like that for his own vanity?

Nancy woke up suddenly to her phone signaling that she had a text.

4433 Harrowgate rd  
East London  
Need your opinion.

-SH

She rolled her eyes. Naturally, he'd gotten a hold of her number, and expected her to just drop everything and…well, she was Nancy Drew. How could she not?

She pulled out her map of London and sighed at how far away he was, but hailed a cab and made her way to his apartment. When she knocked on the door, she was met by him yelling "Open!"

"What is that?" she pointed at the package he was still staring at.

"It is the pinnacle of your fate."

"Seriously."  
"I am being perfectly serious."  
"You said you wanted my opinion?" She took off her jacket, making herself at home on the armrest of his chair. He glared up at her sideways.

"Yes. I received this package along with a phone call, which detailed that this is the surveillance tape of Joshua Bennet's murder."

Nancy's face lit up with sudden enthusiasm.

"The caller went on to explain that should we watch this tape, or send it off as evidence, you will be killed."

"You're joking."

"I told you already I am being perfectly—"

"And you called me here to ask me what I wanted to do with the tape?"

Sherlock found himself just a bit confused, and maybe a bit regretful of having called her at all, but then nodded. "Precisely."


	5. Chapter 5

Nancy watched him in disbelief. There were two specific things about her current situation she didn't quite understand. One, why didn't he just watch the video tape? He seemed to have little to no emotional attachment to Nancy. Why would he be concerned about her well-being? Secondly, she was completely baffled at who the culprit could be. She didn't exactly have a mortal enemy like Sherlock had; however, she did have an abundance of people who disliked her very, very much.

Nancy hopped off the armrest of the chair and began to pace steadily around the room. She had a death-grip like bite on her lower lip as she chewed in frustration. She stopped dead in her tracks and spun to stare at Sherlock, who seemed to be in a bewildered dream state as well.

"Why would they even want to kill me? I don't understand. I don't think I've wronged someone to this degree before."

Sherlock kept his eyes stuck on the floor as he quirked his eyebrow up.

"Well, you aren't exactly the most popular amongst that crowd," he said, glancing up at the girl in frustration. "I read through a few of your cases – you royally pissed off quite a few people."

She sighed and slowly closed her eyes as she pinched the skin between her eyebrows. She wasn't quite sure how long she stood in that position, but it felt like a long period of time. When she finally opened her eyes again, Sherlock was still sitting in his chair with a vacant expression. Nancy decided this would be an opportune moment to observe him just a little bit closer.

He had an almost child-like presence. His mannerisms read instantly as arrogant and his body language almost gave off an air of haughtiness, yet he had an element of innocence behind him, hiding somewhere deep within. The man was a genius, anyone would agree to that, but he seemed like he was trapped inside his head. His prowess was almost uncontrollable. She began to wonder if maybe _that_ was why he had such distaste for emotions. He could never learn to feel them because his brain was completely occupied by the constant thoughts and outstanding intelligence.

He wasn't exactly what Nancy would describe as the typical handsome guy. She probably wouldn't even call him handsome. He had an almost alien-like quality to his appearance, which was enhanced greatly by his unique facial bone structure. The bags under his eyes revealed how little he slept, he had calluses on the tips of his fingers, and there were small scars in the shape of dots that lined his visible forearms in multiple places.

A soft ping and vibration interrupted the intensity in the air. Nancy rolled her eyes and dug through her purse, searching for her phone. She pressed the button near the top that unlocked her phone and slid down her notification bar.

_One new message._

Nancy tucked an errant strand of ginger hair behind an ear and looked back up at Sherlock, who had sunken into a deep trance. He hadn't been disturbed by her alert noise at all. She shrugged and turned her attention back to the cell-phone, tapping on the notification. The text had come from an unknown and blocked number.

_He is charming in a weird way, isn't he? Quite the man. Of course, you wouldn't know what a man is like. How is Ned btw?_

She wasn't quite sure what she was more disturbed about – the fact that they were aware that she had a boyfriend back home, or if they could see her watching Sherlock. She snapped her head up as she heard soft movement to her side. He had somehow slunk over to her shoulder, but was not quick enough to read the text message before she stuffed it back into her purse. He gave her a critical look.

"What was it?"

"From my boyfriend, don't worry about it."

_Ping._

"Boyfriend? You have a boyfriend? You don't seem like the kind of person to desire a relationship."

Nancy sighed dramatically and shot a hostile look up at him. Sherlock returned with a shrug and made his way back to his chair, tapping his index finger on his lips. She maneuvered her phone around in her bag so that it rested on the top. Another new message.

_I'm your bf now? I'm flattered honey but I don't think I'm your type. You should be looking around yourself a bit harder._

She gritted her teeth and began to mentally throw her phone against the wall. Sherlock waltzed over to his laptop and began to type furiously. He peered up towards Nancy and gestured her over.

"I'm going to try and track the phone number. I don't know how easy this is going to be."

Nancy smiled and nodded. "It's at least worth a shot."

Sherlock grasped his phone and connected it by USB to his computer. A grin appeared on his face as the program on his computer beeped in succession. He turned his head towards the girl and chuckled a bit.

"Did you find it?" Nancy squeaked in excitement, prancing over to his side.

_No number found._

"What?"

"They are good. Very good. Tied up all their loose ends."

Nancy groaned and cupped her head in her hands. She was tired, hungry, and felt very annoyed. She leaned next to Sherlock to read the computer time and let out another grunt of frustration.

"I'm going to head back home," She said as she collected her coat. "It's getting late."

Sherlock nodded his head slightly and moved his body back to his chair, along with his accompanying laptop. "Mm," he muttered. "Text me."

The girl took a quick look around the small flat before she left and her eyes caught a very peculiar sight; a real human skull. She shuddered and was instantly reminded of previous cases – glass eyes, mummies, you name it. Nancy snuck out the door as quickly as possible and dashed to the street, hailing a cab. She was so ready to return back at Bridget's and deliver her the current news.

Meanwhile, Sherlock scoured his brain for possible options to detecting the suspect's number. He tapped elegantly across the keyboard as his brain moved a million miles an hour. The alert noise on his phone broke his concentration. He murmured a couple choice words under his breath and pulled the device off the USB cord. A text message illuminated the screen.

_How do you think little red riding hood feels about the wolf so far? I personally think she's a bit too trusting. ;-)_

Sherlock could feel his jaw lock in annoyance. He swiftly moved his fingers over the touch screen.

_All the better to see you with. – SH_

_How clever! When do you think she'll notice the big mouth? All talk but no game, Holmes. Isn't that what this is? "This little game of ours"_

His mind was instantly transported back to the morning atop St. Bart's. Sherlock traced his fingers along the side of his phone. He could almost feel the billowing of his coat around him as he fell through the air. He could hear the reverberating shots from Moriarty's gun.

He really needed a cigarette.


	6. Chapter 6

"I can tell by your callouses that you play the violin," Nancy was saying, leaning dangerously close to Sherlock's stoic face. "See? I can do that too. Play something for me?"

A small smile crept over his features, like he had sprung a leak somewhere behind a mask. In the next moment, he was dragging the bow over the strings, pulling out haunting melodies and Nancy was spinning away into—

Her phone vibrated three times and buzzed itself right off the bedside table onto the floor. She woke with a start and her heart was racing. Grabbing her phone, she sat up and steadied her breathing. _What _kind of dream was that? "Oh, Nancy." She laughed at herself, and checked the message.

Having a bonfire. Come and see.

-SH

Nancy tried to take her time with eating and getting dressed, but she might have gotten to Sherlock's flat a bit too quickly to seem uninterested. She let herself in. "So you're burning it then."

He didn't turn around, but stood in front of the fireplace, his long form silhouetted against the orange blaze. He stabbed at the fire with an iron poker, and crackling sparks flittered up the chimney. The videotape, envelope and all, was now no more than a melted glob.

"Try not to think of it as letting him win. Think of it as a tactical advancement of the progression—"

"It took you all night to decide on it. You were thinking of watching it, and letting them come after me."

Sherlock spun around to face Nancy. "Does that bother you?"

She studied his eyes. No sign of cruelty, irony, sarcasm. Was there a mask at all? Maybe he really felt nothing, and simply didn't care. But more than that—he didn't even realize he ought to care.

"No, it doesn't bother me. I know the itch to solve a case. I understand. Thank you, anyway."

Sherlock looked puzzled. "You're…welcome."

For good measure, Sherlock left the destroyed tape on his doorstep, and sure enough, it vanished by mid-afternoon. He made a mental note that their man must have many friends working for him, seamlessly blending in and watching, waiting. It was all too familiar.

Nancy returned to the scene of Joshua's murder and decided to take a closer look around. She got down on her hands and knees, brushing her fingers through the little patches of grass that grew between the sidewalk and the building. Then a slip of pale blue caught her eye. She picked it up and examined the card excitedly; it was Joshua's library card. It must have fallen out of his pocket, which means he was using it the day he died. "Bingo," she muttered. Nancy jumped up, stuffing the card into her purse and hurried off toward the library.

I found a lead on Joshua. Meet at the library?

-ND

When Nancy walked up to the front door of the building, Sherlock was miraculously already there. There was something inhuman about that man, and his pull to mystery. He opened the door for her and swept in after.

"I found his library card. He must have been using it that very day, and maybe if we find what he was using it for, we can find out why someone would want to kill him."

"Excellent," Sherlock replied. They approached the woman at the counter and Sherlock fell back a bit, signaling to let Nancy do the talking. He knew, of course, that he could persuade people to do or tell him anything he wanted, but he was curious how Nancy would handle the situation.

"Hi, my name's Nancy Drew, and I was wondering if you could look up the records on this card for me," she started off easy, in case that was all it would take.

"Is that your card?" replied the bored librarian, a middle aged woman that Sherlock deduced was a lonely cat owner by her posture and the white hairs on her sleeve.

"No, it actually belongs to a good friend of mine," Nancy's voice became somber. She had known Joshua, but it had been years. She might have to play up her connection a bit. "He…well, he recently passed away…" Nancy let a little waver come into her voice. "I just wanted to make sure he didn't have any outstanding library materials, he was such an avid reader and all, so I just thought—"

"Oh, hun, of course. Here, let me swipe that."

Sherlock eyed Nancy sideways, as if to say not bad. She flashed half a second of a smirk back at him. When the librarian looked back up, Sherlock put an arm around Nancy in a comforting gesture, continuing the charade of mourning.

"Well, seems he checked everything back in." She slid the computer screen around to face them, and the list of materials stared back at them. Maps of the city. Historical records. Architectural journals. Periodicals featuring important construction sites. More maps, blueprints, and London guides. Nancy swallowed hard. "Thank you very much for your help," she told the librarian quickly, before moving away with Sherlock, leaning in conspiratorially. "Interesting. Very interesting," she murmured. Sherlock nodded tersely.

"It seems your friend was savvy to information someone did not want him to know."


	7. Chapter 7

"So I managed to memorize a few of the book titles," Nancy Drew said as her and her newest partner entered his flat. "We can look them up or buy the e-books or – "

"Or I may have them." Sherlock said as he strutted over to his bookshelf, tossing a few of the titles towards Nancy. She sighed and scooped them up in her arms and cradled them as if they were small children.

"Do you think there's a clue somewhere in the pages of these?"

Sherlock laughed heartily and turned to look at the girl over his shoulder.

"Clue? What are you, straight from 20th century detective novels?"

Nancy stared momentarily at Sherlock. He was definitely testing her limits to see how long it'd take for her to put up with him. Instead of sitting around like a wet blanket, Nancy grabbed the three books Sherlock had (very rudely) thrown at her and placed them into her bag. She promptly strode for the door and popped a sweet smile in his direction.

"I'm going home; I don't feel like dealing with you right now. Text me if you find anything."

Before he could even protest, Nancy had bounded out of the flat and was making her way back to Bridget's.

The London evening air was crisp and chilly. The cab ride over to her temporary home had been nice and quiet. Nancy wasn't an introvert in any sense of the word, but she definitely did appreciate alone time. When she arrived back, Bridget had a warm cup of tea awaiting her.

Curling up in her bed with her drink, she began to read the first book. The book had discussed the secret areas of London, which Nancy found utterly fascinating. She wasn't quite sure what Jacob had precisely found, but he clearly had become very interested in it.

Nancy grabbed her laptop and began entering search queries. Secret London areas, unique spots in London, England's mysteries… everything Nancy tried drew up blanks. She cursed herself for not remembering all the names of the books.

She hadn't realized how late it had gotten, but the clock on her computer warned her that she should get to sleep. Sherlock hadn't texted her or called her, so she assumed he was off doing his own thing. In almost a daze, Nancy's fingers began tapping against the keys of her laptop. A beeping noise emanated from her laptop's speakers, breaking her out of her trance. Somehow, an instant messaging program had gotten its way onto her computer and opened itself up. She knew the only way someone could do that is by installing multiple programs and having full access to her computer. She gulped and clicked on the message.

_Your biggest fan says: Getting a little curious, are we?_

Nancy's fingertips hovered above the keyboard. She looked down at the internet browser window, which revealed the search term she entered was 'Sherlock Holmes'. Was it that out of the question? She hardly knew the man; the only thing she honestly knew was that he was supposed to be dead. She ignored the message and tabbed over, but soon lost control of her mouse. She huffed in frustration and watched as the person on the other end navigated her around.

The first link they clicked on was 'The Science of Deduction', apparently Sherlock's blog. She wasn't able to get a peak at his site, unfortunately, before the navigator directed her to Dr. John Watson's blog and the first entry, 'A Study in Pink'.

It was about two in the morning when she finished all of John's blog entries. The ominous blog post he made on June 16th overwhelmed her. She wasn't quite sure why John had said "I'll always believe him".

_Note to self, _Nancy thought. _Befriend John. He probably needs it right now._

The culprit then took her to multiple nasty articles about Sherlock, claiming him to be a fake and saying that Moriarty was an actor. She scoffed in detest at how ridiculous it all sounded. Had people really believed this garbage? Nancy shook her head. The navigator then opened up the maps section of the search engine and entered 221B Baker Street into the search bar. A black door that sat next to a café greeted her on the screen. The instant messaging program beeped again.

_Your biggest fan says: I want you to go here sometime this week._

_Your biggest fan says: You should also talk to Ned instead of fantasizing about Mr. Holmes. I'm sure he's getting lonely over in River Heights. He might have to resort to seeing that Deirdre girl._

She slammed her laptop closed and tossed it under her bed. She felt increasingly guilty for not talking to Ned. She had sent a few emails to her dad and housekeeper Hannah reassuring them she had made it over safe and sound, and a couple of messages to Bes and George gushing about how wonderful London was so far, but nothing to Ned. He was a great boyfriend, the best boyfriend, but she felt as if the two didn't connect as much as they used to. He wanted to settle and be normal, she wanted excitement and adventure. Nancy sighed heavily and curled up under her blankets, drifting off into heavy sleep.

Back at 4433, Sherlock was slapping nicotine patches onto his arm. He groaned heavily as the receptors in his brain began to calm. Addiction was an awful thing.

He had read through all the books Nancy hadn't bothered to grab. The only thing he could connect between them was the layout of London. He wondered why young Joshua wanted to know any of this. The boy hadn't wanted to get into architecture. In fact, he was well on his way to playing in soccer leagues all over England.

Sherlock's mind began to linger on Nancy. The girl was attractive, classically pretty; lovely hair, genuinely good facial features, a distractingly nice body. He sneered and brushed that thought aside.

_Probably has a great deal of friends, was popular when she attended school. Graduated at the top of her class and scored high on her standardized tests. Good at basically everything._

Sherlock closed his eyes and released a breath of air.

"John, remind me to never deal with women ever again after this case. They complicate things."

_"This one would be good for you. She's not Irene Adler, Sherlock."_

"What have I told you? I don't do relationships."

_"Maybe this one should be an exception…"_

"An exception, John? You really believe that I need a significant other in my life in order to be fully happy?"

_"Erm, no, but it sure does help a hell of a lot more than you just sitting around on your ass all day moping around. I can't be here all the time to take care of you."_

"I can take care of myself just fine."

"_Clearly."_

Sherlock's phone pinged from inside his pocket. He shot open his eyes and checked the device; one new message.

_Bless you, having hallucinations about John AND asking for advice about women?_

_I never asked for advice about women. – SH_

_Ned Nickerson, Bess Marvin, George Fayne, Frank & Joe Hardy, Carson Drew, Hannah Gruen – closest alliances. Deirdre Shannon can be included in that list however the two are at wit's end most of the time. Get to know her; she's getting to know you at the moment._

Sherlock returned to the home screen of his phone and opened up a social networking application. He figured he'd start with the first name – an obvious male one, clearly her boyfriend. He grunted as the picture of the boy pulled up. He looked like the stereotypical American young man. Fit, popular, wealthy… Sherlock rolled his eyes dramatically and moved on.

The second and third girls brought interesting information. One was a little chubby with blonde hair, whilst the other was quite athletic and had dark hair; both were cousins, but looked like polar opposites. They had a few compromising photographs of Nancy on their profiles. They were nothing ridiculous, just silly candid ones that snuck a smile onto Sherlock's face. These two were clearly her best friends.

The Hardy brothers also looked like close friends. The last girl that the mystery texter mentioned didn't seem to really have a connection to Nancy friendship wise, but definitely had her eyes on Nickerson. He found nothing on Hannah Gruen, but found out that Carson Drew was indeed, as he suspected, Nancy's father. He was a big-time lawyer. He smirked as he realized that the gentleman had probably worked closely with Lestrade before. It was almost like Nancy and Sherlock were destined to work with each other. If both of them dug tunnels randomly in the earth, they would probably dig them straight at each other – they were like magnets with one another.

And suddenly, it hit him.

"Of course!" Sherlock cried out at his skull. He began tapping furiously, laughing to himself as he did so. He couldn't believe he didn't see it before.

_I think your friend was looking for secret tunnels. There are a few around London. It's the only explanation why he would be so interested in blue prints and books on London's city scheme. Come over tomorrow and we will go track down those documents. – SH_

_Didn't realize how late it was, sorry if I woke you. Sleep well. – SH_


	8. Chapter 8

Hey everyone, thanks for the feedback so far! Please r&r and let us know if you have any suggestions :) We're having a lot of fun writing this, so I hope everyone enjoys. -Ray (letyoursoul)

* * *

Nancy Drew was a morning person. She read Sherlock's texts and bounded out the door without even saying goodbye to Bridget. She could almost feel the nearness of a discovery of a secret tunnel; it was kind of a sixth sense. Once outside, she almost collided with a tall, lean form holding two cups of coffee.

"Do you sleep?" she prodded, snatching one of the cups from Sherlock's hand.

"Not when I have better things to do," he replied, taking a long sip from his cup. "First things first; I want to check something." The consulting detective suddenly crouched down close to Bridget's front steps, where Joshua was found. He ran his fingers over the concrete like he was asking it a question, his eyes flickering wildly back and forth, up and down.

"Nope," he concluded, standing up straight and beginning to walk away. Nancy had to half run after him.

"Nope what?"

"Joshua was not killed on the steps. He was simply left there, much later."

"I figured as much," Nancy replied. Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows at her. He was the only one allowed to be clever. "But why would a murderer drop his victim on his own front steps?" Nancy pulled out her journal notebook and began scribbling away, being sure to trap any train of thought that might help later.

"Now you're asking the right questions. The answer, of course, is obvious."

"It_ is_?" Nancy groaned.

"To make a statement. A clear message, and an obvious trap to pull attention to the killing," Sherlock rattled off quickly as they walked.

"But _why_?" Nancy insisted.

Sherlock inhaled dramatically, stopped, stepped in front of her. "A warning. To us." A chill ran down Nancy's spine, but it wasn't entirely unpleasant. "Guess we better forget this whole thing then, huh?" she smirked. Sherlock mirrored her expression, and they walked on.

"So. Do you know anything about ciphers?" Sherlock asked then. Nancy chuckled. "You could say I have a bit of experience. What have you got for me?" Sherlock pulled from his coat a wrinkled map of London's subway system. A sticker on the bottom claimed it as the copy belonging to the library. He jabbed the map in Nancy's general direction and she snatched it impatiently. He watched her curiously as she unfolded the paper, stopping to lean against a street lamp post. In the margins of the map were some scribbles, in code.

"Oh my gosh. This is the copy Joshua had checked out, isn't it? He wrote these notes. Wow. Okay, it looks like a simple shift cipher, and going by the most common letters, I'd say it's a shift of…four…" she paused, looking up at Sherlock.

"You've already translated this whole thing, haven't you."

"Obviously."

"Am I just here to entertain you?"

He smiled, and didn't answer. He allowed a small part of his mind to be vaguely impressed with her, and then stepped behind her to look at the map over her shoulder, proving his misunderstanding of the concept of personal space. Nancy flinched back, but just a little. "So, translation, Detective Holmes?"

He made a face, and then read, "'Stratford. Forty, forty-one. Orange, red, blue, gray? Try after three.' Gibberish. For now, at least, until I can make sense of it. Quiet, Nancy!"

"I didn't—"

He violently shushed her, and she chuckled as she took another long sip of her coffee. Sherlock was lost in whirling thoughts about Stratford, the tubes, numbers and colors. He rarely took the subway as a matter of personal principle, so it was hard for him to pull up a detailed mental image of the Stratford station. Where were the colors involved? The intersecting lines, no doubt. Try after three…

"Nancy, would you like to examine the body?" He said suddenly, and Nancy nearly spat out her coffee. She realized they were standing in front of the building with the morgue. "Excuse me?"

"Our schedules have cleared until three in the morning, when the train traffic is at it's very slowest. Do keep up, Miss Drew. I thought perhaps we could take a look at Joshua. I have a friend who will let us in."

"Aren't you supposed to be in hiding?"

"Yes, she's the one who placed me in hiding, to be exact."

"Uh huh. Well, I can't say I'm all about poking at dead bodies…"

"You don't need to do anything except stand there and be impressed with me."

"Can't promise anything there, either."

Sherlock found himself missing John just a bit. "Is that what John used to do?" she seemed to read his mind. Sherlock frowned, and all but ushered Nancy into the building, ducking quickly around corners until he knew no one would see him. They stopped just outside the door to Molly's lab, and a growing feeling in Nancy's stomach told her there was no way she was going to watch Sherlock show off over her old friend's corpse.

"You know, maybe it's time we pay Dr. Watson a visit," she prompted, watching his reaction carefully.

"Are you insane," he hissed, grabbing her by the shoulders and turning the full intensity of his gaze onto her. "No one, especially not John, can know I'm alive. It would put him in great danger."

"Sherlock, someone already knows you're alive. Someone connected with Moriarty. And they're not going after John. Face it, you miss him, and you need him."

"I don't need anyone."

"Literally everyone in the world says that, Sherlock. Come on, you're smarter than that. You know it isn't true."

Sherlock let go and backed up a bit. Note to self, he thought. Nancy Drew is frightening, and usually right. He supposed letting John in on the case wouldn't hurt as long as John kept it to himself, and Sherlock knew that he would. The question here was: why did Nancy care? And how was she so adept at reading him? Perhaps his talents were contagious. He decided on that explanation and felt vaguely satisfied.

"You could go, then?" he asked, his voice suddenly small, even as he tried to make it a command. Somehow, he couldn't imagine having that conversation with his best friend. He'd probably get punched in the face, or worse, John would cry, and Sherlock would have no idea what to do. Or, worst of all, Sherlock would cry, and that would be the end of his image forever. Unthinkable.

"You want me to tell John you're alive?" Nancy sighed, studying his face. The man was suddenly vulnerable, innocent, child-like. She wrestled her instinctual distrust of him against her instinctual urge to give the guy a hug. The hug won, and she found herself suddenly pulling him close in a quick embrace. "Alright, I'll go. Stay out of trouble." She let go and hurried away down the hallway before Sherlock could even exhale. He clenched and unclenched his hands nervously, still feeling the pressure of the gesture against him, blinked a few times, and then swept into the laboratory feeling a bit like he had left his own body.


	9. Chapter 9

The pale brunette stared up at the doctor briefly before keeling over and hacking up a lung. The doctor sighed and scribbled the young man's prescription down on a pad and ripped it off.

"Take these, get lots of rest, don't over-exert yourself, okay?"

The boy nodded and hopped off the hospital equipment and sauntered out, noisily coughing along the way. The doctor sighed again and walked out of the room and into the one parallel. He made his way to his desk and slowly pulled out a bundle of keys. He shoved one into the lock of one of the drawers and pulled it open, a gun sliding around within it. He watched the firearm for a moment before resting the pad of prescription papers atop it. The doctor quickly found his bottom pressed heavily into his comfy office chair as he leaned back, breathing in deeply. He didn't have to worry about patients for a good hour and decided this would be an opportune moment to relax.

That was, at least, until there was a soft knock on the door. He sat up straight and fixed his askew tie, quickly standing up. A young woman appeared in the doorway, a weak smile playing on her lips.

"Hello, Dr. John Watson?"

"Erm, yes. That'd be me. Can I help you?"

The girl crossed the room towards him and jutted out a hand confidently. "Nancy Drew. I'm here to… discuss something with you."

John cocked his head and smiled solemnly.

"Well, sweetheart, you're a bit early. Your old doctor forwarded me your files," he said as he reached into his bag, pulling out a document and placing it on the desk. "It looks like you're due for a new birth control shot –"

"No! No, no," Nancy laughed, sitting in one of the cushy chairs John had in his office. "I'm here to talk to you about something else, nothing medical related. Somebody wanted me to talk to you." She smiled as she got up from her chair and walked to the door, shutting it behind her.

"I have some information on your friend."

John's eyes began to lose their cheery demeanor and were replaced with a much darker look. He knew exactly which friend she was speaking of.

"Right, well…"

"He's alive, John."

The man paused and stared at the girl. Who was this woman and how did she know Sherlock? The two exchanged looks for a long while, until John shook his head.

"I was wondering why shit was disappearing from the flat."

Nancy laughed and picked at a loose thread coming from her jeans.

"Was he living in America, then?" John asked, clearing his throat. Nancy looked up. John was obviously fighting back his emotions. She took in a deep breath and sat back in the chair.

"Oh, no. I ran into him at a… uh, never mind…" She began to shake her head at the ridiculousness of her situation. "We found each other working on the same case as each other. I'm an amateur detective."

John nodded and eyed her closely.

"Are you two close?"

Nancy shook her head. "No, well, I guess I could consider him my friend? Not sure if I'm one of his, you know how he is," she laughed. "We parted ways at the morgue. I thought it would be best to tell you about him and how he's doing. I read all of your blog, by the way. I really enjoyed the entries."

John chuckled to himself a little bit and stared at his feet. He couldn't gather his thoughts correctly.

"So he's here?"

"Yeah."

John nodded and looked up at her. He fiddled a bit with a pen that still resided in his hands, flipping it back and forth between his fingers. He slowly inhaled and exhaled then dropped the writing utensil.

"Do you know how he did it?"

Nancy shook her head. A few tears were beginning to well in John's eyes. She could tell they weren't normal, sad tears; they were tears of anger and betrayal.

"John, I understand why you are upset, but he didn't tell you because he wanted to keep you safe. He loves you quite a bit," Nancy paused as John lifted his bag onto the table and rifled through his items. "We can go visit him right now if you'd like."

John zipped his bag closed and stood up from his chair. "I… I don't know, Miss Drew, this has all been a lot for me to deal with and I have a patient about to come in soon, so I need to ask you to leave."

Nancy grinned mischievously.

"No, I scheduled that appointment. I didn't say it was refills of birth control though, so you must have your files mixed up…"

John looked into his bag and groaned loudly.

"Sorry, just been messed up lately…" He mumbled, throwing the bag onto his shoulder. "Well, you would have been the last of the day. I guess we'll just… go, then?"

The amount of obvious apprehension in his voice was immense. It hadn't sunken it just yet that Sherlock was still alive, and Nancy began to wonder if she really wanted to know what would happen at the morgue. As she followed the doctor out the door of his office, she braced herself for what was to come.

"Just finished his body," Molly Hooper said to Sherlock as he made his way over to the slab. He smiled and lifted the canvas away from the cadaver, revealing a young boy who was in his late teens. His eyes darted quickly across the body as he paced circles around the cart.

"Haven't seen you in a bit. Are you feeling daring enough to come out of the flat today?" Molly asked cheerfully.

"I'm working on a case with someone, she's talking to John right now," Sherlock commented with his voice low as he focused on the subject at hand.

"She?"

"He has a few scrapes along his body, indicating a bit of a struggle. Bruises around his lips. Not to mention the obvious cut across his neck, that would have been fatal." Sherlock observed, ignoring Molly. "Toxicology report?"

"According to his papers," Molly said, flipping through the clipboard that was attached to the cart. "Chloroform. Death by respiratory arrest. They must have slit his throat afterwards."

"But were stupid enough to not lay blood on the doorstep… this person isn't experienced in killing. Strange…" Sherlock trailed off, searching for other obvious signs he may be missing. A slamming door jarred him from his concentration. He looked up, and in the doorway stood John. The two stared with wild-eyes at each other until John made his way quickly over to Sherlock.

He promptly slammed his right fist into Sherlock's nose.


	10. Chapter 10

I'm really excited about this chapter, just sayin. -letyoursoul

* * *

"I think it's probably best if we uh, leave them alone for a few minutes, don't you think?" Molly whispered to Nancy as they backed slowly out of the lab and into the hallway. Nancy nodded, biting back a laugh. She clicked the door shut behind them, cutting off the slew of curses John was throwing at Sherlock, who was patiently rubbing the bridge of his nose, last Nancy saw.

Molly made a nervous face. "He might actually kill him, you know."

"I think Sherlock can hold his own," Nancy replied, rolling her eyes. "Nancy Drew, by the way. I've heard good things about you."

"From Sherlock. Wow. Okay then," Molly said, flipping her hair over her shoulder shyly. Nancy smiled, and started to walk off down the hallway. Molly trailed after her with uncertain steps. "He's brilliant, you know. A proper genius. But also, sort of difficult to work with, you know? I mean, John's the only person he's ever really connected with. Just watch out for yourself, okay Nancy?"

Nancy shifted uncomfortably, wondering if her growing fondness for the consulting detective was actually that obvious. But, upon a closer look at Molly's face, it didn't take much detective work to see that Molly had been hurt by Sherlock. That'd be why, then.

"Thanks, Molly. Good to meet you." She smiled warmly and exited the building, deciding to head back to Bridget's and fill her in on at least some of what was going on with the case, and make a much needed phone call to Bess and George. As soon as she got into a cab, her phone alerted her to a text.

_The plot thickens, Nancy. Not a wise move, involving the doctor. But don't worry, you're right. Moriarty's men aren't watching him anymore. Or I might be lying. ;)_

_-A fan_

She glared at the words, then forcefully typed back,

_Hope you're enjoying your game with us, because you're going to lose. I know how this works, and I know how to catch a bad guy._

_-ND_

Beep.

_My my. So confident. No wonder he likes you._

_-A fan_

Nancy bit her lip and stuffed her phone into her pocket as she paid the driver and hurried into Bridget's apartment, slamming the door behind her a bit too loudly. After a cup of tea with Bridget, explaining what they found on Joshua's library card, Nancy slipped up to her room and had a nice long chat with Bess and George. But her phone wasn't done ringing for the day just yet. Nancy had curled up on the window seat and relaxed for exactly three minutes when her phone rang again—Ned.

"Hey, Ned," she said wearily.

"Hey yourself. How's London?" his voice was terse and cold.

"Oh, you know…" she riffed vaguely, not feeling like explaining everything all over again, and to someone who just didn't understand the sort of situations she got herself into.

"Actually, I don't know. I don't know anything about you or what you've been doing, and Bess just told me to watch out because you're working on some kind of international-level case with a _mysterious genius man_? Not really the thing a guy likes to hear about second-hand, Nancy."

"Ned, I—"

"No, I am so tired of sitting here while you run around the world doing whatever it is that you do, and I just have to wait and worry. Consider yourself free of my burden."

The line went dead.

Nancy heaved out a huge sigh and spent a good minute or two staring out the window at the London traffic, letting her mind completely clear, empty, void, reorganize itself, reprioritize, deleting all the information she didn't need. Sometimes, emotions really did get in the way. This had been a long time coming, though, she allowed herself to admit. Evening fell and Nancy felt oddly calm, and the twilight glow out the window held a certain thrill, as she imagined all the things out in the world that she could still explore and understand and learn and solve. The phrase "married to my work" popped into her mind, and she laughed at herself at the image. There would always be the ecstasy of another mystery to bring purpose to Nancy Drew's life.

That was why a bit later, at 221 Baker Street, Nancy mentioned nonchalantly to Sherlock and John that her boyfriend had just broken up with her.

"I'm sorry to hear it," John offered, looking visibly healthier than when she'd left him. He must have vented his frustration well, and now was finally allowing himself to breathe again, knowing his best friend was alive. Sherlock crooked an eyebrow at both of them in turns. Silly ordinary people and their silly ordinary relationships. He felt a strange inclination that maybe John would try to make a move on Nancy after the news, and it made him a bit antsy.

But Nancy laughed and took another sip of her tea, something which seemed to constantly be in her hands since coming to London. "Honestly, I feel…liberated. I don't think I was ever going to be the kind of girl who could handle a regular relationship."

"To business, then!" Sherlock shouted, annoyed at the level of feelings being discussed in the room. He worried his intellect would suffer. "We are going to the Stratford station tonight at 3. We will scope out whatever it is that Joshua was making notations about. John will keep watch for nefarious individuals—"

"Now wait a moment. Wait just a moment, Sherlock. You bring me back into your life, and my first order of duty is to play lookout?"

Nancy giggled.

"Precisely. John, you're much too indispensable to come in with us. Honestly do I have to explain everything?"

"And I'm disposable, then?" Nancy snapped at him.

"No. But you possess a level of insanity close to mine." Sherlock graced her with a large, uninhibited smile. Nancy couldn't help but think things were working out fairly well.

The city in the middle of the night was a certain kind of beautiful that it would take a poet to explain. For Nancy and Sherlock, all they could do was quietly appreciate the volt of chill and potential in the hazy air, and remind John to please keep up as they walked. They slipped into the station at precisely 3 in the morning, and it was fairly deserted aside from a few sleepy night shift travelers. It was all too easy to place John on the platform with his hood up, features obscured, at a good vantage point to see anyone else slipping down onto the tracks in the tunnel, and then for Nancy and Sherlock to drop deftly down into the darkness, sliding along the grimy wall with nothing but Nancy's skinny flashlight beam to guide them.

"Remind me again what we're looking for?" Sherlock hissed as they moved slowly along beside the tracks. In the distance, ghostly metallic whispers echoed back from subway trains.

"Anything out of the ordinary. I'm thinking there must be some sort of door. And something very important, and very secret, behind it."

Sherlock could hear the delight in her voice, and walked a bit closer to her, feeding off her energy. And then the edge of her beam caught a strange symbol on the wall. Much like a grid, but sticking out just a bit from the tile. "Something like that?" Sherlock pointed. Nancy gasped and drew in closer to the grid. She shoved her flashlight into Sherlock's hand and he held it for her without thinking. Nancy dragged her fingers over the lines, noticing that they snapped around like a puzzle. She remembered the colors Joshua had written down, her mind whirring to make connections. Then Sherlock's phone buzzed.

_Someone's coming. They do not look friendly. Get out of there now._

_-JW_

"Oh, come on John," Sherlock muttered, trying to slide his phone back into his pocket and continue studying the intricate lock, "We've only just begun." But it buzzed again almost immediately.

_NOW._

He took a quick breath and grabbed Nancy by the wrist and yanked her away from the puzzle, snapping her out of concentration. "But I was just—ow—slow down!" Frustration washed over her, leaving a door locked. But she suddenly understood the urgency when she heard scraping footsteps echoing sinisterly through the tunnel. The detectives were not welcome there. This was never part of the plot. Nancy and Sherlock ran single file along the thin platform, but it was dangerously slick with oil and close to the tracks, and fear welled up inside the pair as the subway tunnel began to rumble with the unmistakable promise of an oncoming train.

Sherlock pulled Nancy to a shuddering halt just before a pillar blocking their path. They would have to step around it, hanging off towards the track, in order to continue. "They chased us off just as they heard the train. The bastards were waiting…" he was muttering, still holding Nancy back. The ground was shaking violently now, and the light was materializing in the distance.

"Sherlock, the door code! I've seen it! It's from the subway map itself, the order, the shape…it's a grid of the intersections!" Nancy suddenly shrieked, and tried to push past him to slide around the pillar.

Leave it to this woman to solve a puzzle at a time like this! Sherlock always needed silence, concentration, the delicate, symphonic ministrations of his own mind, but here was Nancy Drew, amateur detective, connecting things in her mind for the pure joy of solving the case while a subway train barreled towards her. And still she pushed onward.

"Nancy Drew, you are _fantastic_," he breathed, and pulled her back from the pillar. "Now stay exactly where you are, do you understand?"

"I think I can make it!" Nancy yelled above the clatter of the oncoming train. "Let me go, I can make it!"

"Don't be stupid!" he snapped, and pushed her roughly against the tile wall of the tunnel, and held her firmly in place by the wrists. Nancy looked up and met Sherlock's eyes with a wave of understanding. At exactly that moment, the train burst past them in an explosion of screeching metal and hissing air. An impossible white light flooded everything, and the tunnel compressed and shook and still they clung to each other, and then their lips were pressed together, twisting and falling among the inescapable wind and noise and light. When they unlocked themselves, it had all slowly died out and away into the distance of the tunnel.

In the next moment of darkness, a sharp pain hit first Sherlock, then Nancy across the head, and the world fell away in a much less romantic sense than before.


	11. Chapter 11

Sherlock awoke slowly and gradually, moaning as he came fully to consciousness. A rapid, pulsing pain throbbed at the back of his head. He reached a hand back and touched a swelling lump. The man grunted and sat up in his bed, reaching over and grabbing his phone off the nightstand. It was late evening. He sighed and tossed his legs over the side of his bed, standing up slowly as he cradled his head. A pair of soft whispers in the living room grabbed his attention.

"John?" He shouted, bracing himself against his night stand. As he began to take in his surroundings, he realized he had somehow ended up in 221B in his old bedroom.

"In here, mate," John yelled back from the living area. Sherlock stumbled through the hallway until he reached the kitchen, where the scent of coffee called to him. He grasped a mug in one hand and dumped the hot black liquid into it, not even bothering to add milk and sugar. He trudged into the living room.

John was relaxing in his recliner, while a woman sat, curled up, on the adjacent couch. Sherlock watched the girl briefly, until his mind finally was able to catch up with him.

_Nancy Drew. Showing symptoms of minor concussion as well. Dilated pupils. Cheeks turning a tad bit red. Embarrassment? Attraction? The latter; you kissed her last night, you ass._

Sherlock stopped himself as he slowly began to recollect his memories from the previous night. Ah, yes… the kiss. He wasn't entirely sure why he did it in the first place, or if it was mainly him or her that committed the deed, but it had definitely happened.

"How are you feeling?" Nancy asked, her voice hoarse.

"Ugh," Sherlock responded, flopping down next to her on the couch and leaning his head back.

"Like University all over again?" John inquired. The two laughed knowingly, causing Nancy to elicit a confused look. Sherlock opened his eyes and lolled his head to the side as he watched her.

"Did you two get concussions a lot in school, or something?"

Sherlock laughed again. "You are unbelievably innocent sometimes."

The girl scoffed and pulled her knees up to her chest.

"How about you, are you feeling any better?" Sherlock asked, examining her. She had also been hit on the back of the head. She shifted her eyes and raised an eyebrow.

"Please, I've been hit countless times over the head. It's unfortunate I wasn't wearing a cowboy hat with a helmet built in this time though," She giggled to herself. Both men stared blankly at her, causing Nancy's laugh to fade. "Oh, right. Um – "

A knock on the door disturbed the light conversation. A cheery Mrs. Hudson popped in, waving around an envelope in her hand. Before she said anything, her eyes caught Nancy. A playful light danced in her eyes.

"New girlfriend, John?"

The man moaned. "Jesus, no – I mean – Nancy is lovely but she's not my –"

"I'm a friend. My name is Nancy Drew." Nancy said as she reached up to shake the old woman's hand.

"Very nice to meet you dear, just call me Mrs. Hudson, I'm the landlady for Jo-"

Mrs. Hudson cut herself short as she noticed Sherlock plopped down next to Nancy. She squeaked, and took the envelope in her hand and smacked him across the head.

"You big, bloody fool!" She yelped. Sherlock laughed and stood up to embrace her. The woman clung to him, pecking him on the cheeks. "You have some explaining to do."

"Later. What do you have there?"

"A young girl dropped this by just a few minutes ago." Mrs. Hudson said.

Sherlock leaped up and snatched it in his hands. A dinging noise downstairs drew Mrs. Hudson's attention away from the company.

"Damn, that'd be dinner. It was lovely meeting you Ms. Drew," she called as she dashed down the stairs, as quickly as an old woman could. Nancy grinned and compared the loving woman to her own housekeeper, Hannah, out loud, causing John to laugh.

Sherlock dumped out the contents of the manila envelope onto the coffee table that still rested across from the couch. Out of the package poured a couple of photographs and a letter. Nancy gasped loudly and sunk deeply into the couch, slapping a hand across her mouth. She pointed a shaking hand at one of the pictures. Sherlock picked up the photo gently. It was from a security camera. The woman in the picture was standing where Nancy and Sherlock had been just the night before. Her body position suggested she was staring at the puzzle that resided on the wall. She had long hair and a petite frame. Sherlock turned his head and looked at Nancy.

"You know who this is, don't you?"

The girl nodded, her eyes brimming with tears as she choked back a sob.

_She wouldn't react this way with any regular woman,_ Sherlock thought. _She was close to her. The date on the photograph; Nancy would have been about 3. Her mother, then._

Sherlock sat up straight and put the photograph back on the table. He had no idea what to do or how to console the girl. He reached a hand forward and touched her shoulder softly, causing her to let out the sobs she'd been holding back. She was trembling furiously from her head to her toes. John got up and sat down on the armrest. He began to rub her back and whisper 'there, there' and wrapped an arm around her side. Sherlock felt almost territorial as John touched her. He quickly dismissed the thought as instinctual and watched John get up.

"I'll make you a cuppa. Sherlock, join me?" John asked, a stern look in his eyes. Sherlock nodded and got off the couch, striding behind John.

"It's her mother," Sherlock whispered as John began to boil water. "The date is when she died and I know Nancy wouldn't react that way towards any old woman."

John furrowed his brow and looked up at Sherlock.

"What happened to you anyway?" Sherlock asked, leaning against the cupboard.

"Well, you never responded to my text, so I assumed you two ran into some trouble. I ran down to the platform and found the two of you crumpled up together. She came to right as I got there and you followed suit. You were pretty out of it though, I got you some painkillers from work today in case you get any headaches. She wasn't hit as bad as you." John responded as he poured the hot water over the tea bag, letting the herbs steep as the water penetrated the fabric. Sherlock looked back into the living room, where Nancy was drying her eyes and shaking her head in disbelief.

"She means something to you."

"Mmm? Why do you say that?"

John looked up at Sherlock as he added milk and sugar to the hot liquid.

"Because you're looking at her like you did with Irene."

Sherlock paused and watched John make his way into the living room as he handed Nancy her tea. She thanked him and took a long swig. Her face was pale and eyes were glossed over from crying. His eyes lingered a bit longer than he would have preferred on her lips, which turned bright red and puffy from her sobbing. Sherlock glided back into the room and sat down next to her, picking up the note.

_Come back again and end up like her. Then again, I'm sure Nancy would like to know what happened to dear old mummy._

- _A fan_

Sherlock sighed and looked up at John. "Did you get rid of my fingerprint kit?"

A soft laugh erupted from Nancy as she dug through her bag. She soon brandished a small pallet, which opened to reveal a printing kit.

"Never forget your detective essentials, Holmes."

Sherlock mumbled as he grabbed it out of her hands and began work on the piece of paper. John laughed heartily.

"You are a detective as well, Nancy?"

"An amateur, nothing too special like Sherlock."

"Oh please," Sherlock retorted. "She's gone all over the world solving crimes and mysteries of all sorts."

John eyed the man closely and smirked, turning his attention back to Nancy.

"So you were talking about the last time you got knocked out. I'd love to hear that story!"

Nancy laughed lightly and leaned back against the couch, staring up at the ceiling.

"That was hardly the last time, but anyway, I had traveled to the southwest of the States to go to a working ranch with my girlfriends – they weren't there yet because their plane was delayed – but their aunt and uncle owned the place, so we decided to take a little vacation. Wouldn't you know it, there ended up being a horse that gl-"

"No prints." Sherlock interrupted, scoffing loudly as he leaned back. "None. Oh, they are good."

John sighed and checked his watch as he yawned. "Right, well, I'm off to bed. Nancy, you're welcome to the stay the night again if you'd like."

"Thank you, John." Nancy said, getting up to hug the doctor.

As John thudded up the stairs to his room, Nancy sat down on the floor in front of the couch and touched Sherlock's back gently.

"I think we need to talk about something." She whispered, scooting her body forward so he could properly look at her. He groaned and leaned his head back onto the couch cushions.

"I was hoping you'd forgotten," he said, rubbing his face. Nancy returned her hand and rested them in her lap, looking down.

"No. I told John what happened, but I didn't tell him that part, by the way."

"Obviously," He mumbled as he turned to watch her picking at a piece of thread sticking out from her pants. He smiled and lazily placed his arm around her shoulders. She looked up at him and raised an eyebrow.

"Getting daring, are we?" She laughed as she moved her body next to his.

"Isn't this what normal people do when they're attracted to each other?" He asked. Nancy continued to laugh until she saw that he was actually, genuinely unaware that yes, that is what normal people do. She smiled and nodded her head, leaning to her right to rest her cheek on his shoulder.

"Sorry, I'm not exactly experienced in these things," He grunted, slowly closing his eyelids. Nancy pressed her lips against his cheek and sat back up, reaching forward to grab her now cold mug of tea.

"Don't worry. I clearly don't understand relationships either."


	12. Chapter 12

John Watson didn't really know how to react when he came downstairs the next morning to find Sherlock Holmes and Nancy Drew curled against each other fast asleep, sitting between the couch and the coffee table, case notes spread out in a disorganized heap around them. He stopped at the bottom of the stairs and blinked a few times, then choked back a ripple of laughter as he noticed Sherlock was snoring onto Nancy's shoulder. And all the while, the most prominent thought in his mind was, _so he does sleep_. He also decided that his plans to ask Nancy out were probably best left undone.

John cleared his throat loudly, and the pair of detectives shot awake. "Tea, anyone?" he smirked and moved into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

Nancy shuffled into a standing position and smoothed out her clothes and hair, and Sherlock mumbled incoherently about the game being afoot. When they finally woke up, they avoided each other's eyes and sat down on the sofa, shuffling through last night's notes.

Nancy's handwriting was impeccable, and naturally, Sherlock's was completely illegible. John brought out the tea and looked at the notes with them; or at least, looked at what Nancy had written.

"So you think there's some kind of underground crime circle?" John asked.

"Quite literally underground," Sherlock replied, and took a long draw at his tea as if the answers were in the bottom of the cup. Nancy pulled her legs under so she was sitting cross-legged. "A well-established crime circle, that's been operating since my mother was my age. And clearly, I get my curiosity from her." A spark of pain was still in her voice, but Nancy was always good at holding herself together. "The circumstances of her death were always a bit blurry and the case went unsolved. It's sort of what got me into the detective business. I always thought that if someone just took the time to really look, the answers would always be out there…" she trailed off, tucking the picture of her mother in the subway tunnel underneath another paper. "Anyway, I think I'm closer than I ever was to finding out why she never came back from that vacation to Europe."

"And I think we're about to discover Moriarty's center of operations," Sherlock put in.

"You don't think…" John's eyes widened.

"We very much do think, John. This organization was always bigger than just one man. And the logical assumption is that our _fan _has stepped up as the new leader."

Nancy sighed. "The question is, why lead us directly to them? Why tease us with lead after lead, calling us right into the heart of their secret? It doesn't make any sense…"

"Of course it does," Sherlock said sharply. "We just don't know what sense it makes yet. There is always an answer to everything, Nancy. You just said so yourself. We must simply eliminate that which is not the answer."

John rolled his eyes. "And how do you plan on doing that? You can't go back to the tunnel."

"No, not yet. But there may be another way to expose them. For now, I must think." Sherlock pulled his knees up to his chest, closed his eyes, and became silent.

Nancy looked at him sideways. "Just…think? Can't we go out looking for more information? Talk to people? Call our friends?"

"Silence, please."

"Oh, for goodness sake. John, come with me. I'm going to study some subway maps." She stood up, and John found it difficult to argue with such an assertive invitation. The thought popped into his head that suddenly he had two Sherlocks to follow around. But they only made it as far as the door when Sherlock and Nancy's phones chirped out in unison. Sherlock squinted one eye open, and met Nancy's apprehensive look. They pulled out their phones and opened the text.

_Haven't seen Mrs Hudson lately, have you?_

_-A fan_

Sherlock's stomach dropped. "John. Where is Mrs. Hudson," he said slowly. Nancy hurried downstairs towards her apartment. She knocked forcefully on the door. No answer. John tried calling her phone, but it was off.

"She's not here, Sherlock," Nancy said quietly, coming back into the room. Sherlock bounded past them down to Mrs. Hudson's door. "Nancy, your lock picks." She handed them over. It took Sherlock less than a minute to open the door and sweep through the empty flat. A back window was ajar, just slightly. Sherlock's hands clenched into fists.

"They've taken her."

"They couldn't! We would have heard something. Surely, they're just trying to scare us. Sherlock!" John pleaded, but Sherlock was flying back to their flat, whipping on his coat, and had burst out the front door before they could stop him. He hailed a cab and drove off, not even sure himself where he was going, but he had to go somewhere-had to _do_ something. The feeling of helplessness was eating away at him, and there was nothing more painful to Sherlock than the notion that he was just someone's pawn in a bigger game, and he had no control over the circumstances surrounding the case, and his own life. Anger rippled through him, along with the intense desire for a cigarette, which was never a good sign.

Nancy and John looked at each other in the doorway of 221 B. "What do we do?" Nancy asked, worry heavy in her voice.

"It's not good for him to work alone. He gets…unstable. We have to follow him, Nancy."

She nodded tersely. "And then we find Mrs. Hudson."


	13. Chapter 13

His fingertips were cold as he clutched his mobile in one hand, while the other had a death grip on the handle in the cab. Sherlock was desperate. Mrs. Hudson was a secondary mother to him (although he basically considered her as his biological one). His phone vibrated loudly against his boney fingers. He snapped his head and lifted the phone up, staring at the screen. A new message. He scrambled to open it up, his heart racing as the message pulled up.

_Kensington_

- _A fan_

Sherlock's eyes almost popped out of his head. He yelled at the cab driver his destination and thumped back in his seat, racking his mind. Kensington? Mrs. Hudson didn't have any family that lived directly in London. She had a good friend in Kensington, however. Was that where she was?

Sherlock's jaw locked as he began to finally realize what was happening. He sucked in hot air and worked his fingers against the touch screen, dialing John's cell-phone number; one he'd memorized like the back of his hand.

"Where the hell did you go?" John yelled into the phone. He sounded out of breath. He and Nancy probably had to run to catch a cab, which meant that they were not at Baker Street.

"Go back home," he demanded, swiveling around in his seat as he took in the view around him. "I got a text that said 'Kensington'. I'm going to go check and make sure. You need to return to Baker Street."

The phone was silent for a brief moment, followed by murmurs and the shuffling sound of a phone being passed over.

"What's happening?" The sing-song voice of Nancy Drew responded. Sherlock groaned and rubbed his temples.

"I think I know where she is and I'm almost positive that she isn't hurt. You and John need to go back to Baker Street right now."

The girl sighed and hung up, leaving Sherlock with his cabbie.

* * *

John and Nancy both entered the flat, their eyes searching for anything out of place. Everything was the same; at least, to their eyes nothing looked disturbed. Nancy searched through the case files that were scattered on the table. The picture of her mother still remained, along with all the evidence they had gathered. Nancy stood up straight and crossed her arms. Her eyes drifted to John, who was bent over, breathing heavily. She smiled lovingly in his direction as he looked up.

"Haven't done this in a while, all this… running around," He puffed, walking over to his chair and settling down. He looked over towards Nancy, who was tapping on her own phone now.

"Would Sherlock have anything in his room that they would look for?"

John shook his head.

"No, he cleared out his things when he, well, you know… I returned home one night and all of his stuff was gone. I thought I'd been robbed," He laughed, then shook his head again. "This is such an indecent time to be laughing."

Nancy walked over and patted John's back, shaking her head.

"I am sure that Mrs. Hudson is fine. If Sherlock thinks so, she must be, right?" Nancy asked, settling herself down on the armrest of John's chair. He nodded and looked up at Nancy, who was now staring off and out one of the windows.

"So, are you going to tell me what's going on between the two of you?" John prodded, leaning back in his chair and resting his head on a perched hand. Nancy looked down and had a tinge of red reach her cheeks.

"Classified information, Watson." She said with a likeness of Sally Donovan. John laughed and leaned back.

"I trust you with him," he muttered. "Just so you know. There was another one, but she…"

"Irene Adler?" Nancy asked, becoming more curious.

"Yes," John answered. "She ruined him."

Nancy paused and rubbed John's nearest shoulder lovingly.

"I can't make promises, John, but –"

Her phone began to alarm her to a text message. Nancy rolled her eyes and pulled the device out of her nearby bag. The contact ID said Bess Marvin. She sighed loudly and looked at John, who looked concerned.

"Just a friend." She said. Normally, she would be quite happy to be hearing from her best friend, but she wasn't quite sure about Bess right now.

_Hey we tried calling why aren't you answering?_

_I had something important come up. – ND_

_Ur being distant… we have a surprise 4 u! also we heard about you and ned, what the heck? hows ur case?_

Nancy cocked her head and furrowed her eyebrows. Wouldn't Bess know the details? She was the one who told him a story, anyway.

_What? Ned said you told him that I was in London running around with Sherlock and he got supremely jealous and broke up with me… - ND_

_UMMM? I, bess marvin, have not spoken to Nickerson since you left._

"Oh my God," Nancy mumbled under her breath. John had turned on the television and broke his concentration on the program.

"What?"

"They've been posing as my friends," she said, returning her glance back to her phone's screen.

_Anyway we r going to visit you in a few days I couldn't wait to tell u! George is gonna kill me lol shes yelling at me as I type this oops_

"… and apparently my two best friends are coming to visit."

* * *

The gentleman slowed down at Kensington Gardens, turning around in his seat to smile at Sherlock.

"Mate, dunno where you wanna go, but looks like this would be an optimal spot."

Sherlock thanked the man and tossed the money in his pocket at him, dashing out down the road. He garnered a few looks, but he didn't care. He wasn't exactly trying to hide his identity anymore; there were other important things at hand.

Almost as if it were a blessing, there she was, sitting on a park bench. Granted, she looked terrified out of her mind, tears streaming down her face. Sherlock lunged towards her, scooping her into his arms.

"Are you alright?" He asked frantically, pivoting around her to make sure no harm had been done. She nodded and clutched Sherlock's arm, eyes wild with fear.

"They just _grabbed_ me as if it were no big deal! Sherlock, I don't know what kind of people you've run into while you were gone – "

He interrupted her by grasping her wrist and dragging her along with him, moving at an extended walking pace. He would have ran, but he was very mindful of Mrs. Hudson's age and geriatric body.

"What did they look like?"

"I don't know," She choked out. "There were about three of them. One was very large, I think one was a woman, and another had a build like John. One had a scar running across his eye. That was all I could see, though. They were in masks."

A car pulled up as Sherlock frantically waved his arms around. It wasn't a taxi, but a very familiar black Jaguar. Sherlock skidded to a stop by the curb.

"Shit," He whispered. A lump began to form in his throat.

Out of all the things he needed right now, one was definitely not a scolding from big brother himself.


	14. Chapter 14

"Mycroft."  
"Sherlock."

"To what do I owe this great honor?" Beside him, Mrs. Hudson trembled. "May I assert that I have a passenger who needs to be taken home immediately?"

"Yes Sherlock, I can see that. But on the way, listen to me." Mycroft handed Mrs. Hudson a glass of water as they sat in the back seat of the jaguar. She sipped it cautiously. "Don't offer Mrs. Hudson hospitality, Mycroft," Sherlock sneered. "To the point, please!"

"I have reason to believe that you are poking around in things even our government does not have the authority or the knowledge to…poke around in. I must implore you to let this case go. We have intelligence and men on this case taking the proper precautions—"

"You don't think I take precautions?"

"Frankly, no."

"Oh Sherlock, if you're in danger, please do as he says," Mrs. Hudson sniffled.

"Hush Mrs. Hudson _you're in shock_," Sherlock patted her shoulder and glared at Mycroft. They were almost back to 221 B.

"While your input is always appreciated, it is, as usual, unnecessary."

"Will there ever be a day when you just listen to me?" Mycroft rubbed the bridge of his nose. Since he had learned of his brother's false suicide and known he had still lived, keeping tabs on him had been harder than ever, but talking to him was the hardest still.

"Probably not, but _do_ keep trying. Oh, that's me. Catch you later," Sherlock slid out of the car, helping Mrs. Hudson and slamming the door behind them a bit too forcefully.

"So what do we _know_?" Nancy prompted. Sherlock was ferociously pacing beside the windows, John was sat calmly in his chair, and Nancy was absently poking the fire, sending little sparks flickering, combating the dim room. Mrs. Hudson was napping peacefully in her apartment after the full attentions of Dr. Watson.

"They wanted us out of the flat. Called us away to Mrs. Hudson so they could…no, but no one was here." Sherlock spun around, ruffled his hands through his hair, eyes wild. "What if they got exactly what they wanted out of that scheme?"

"Not following, Sherlock," John mumbled.

"Naturally," he snapped. "One of us left. I left alone because I'm just so predictable," he punctuated every word with a stamp of his foot as he paced back to facing the window. "And what happened when I left, John?"

"We came after you?"

"Before that, John! Why! Why did you and Nancy decide that you must come after me?"

"John said you were unstable when you worked alone," Nancy murmured.

Sherlock's mind raced. Then it was all exactly as he had deduced. "And did that make you decide to stay far away from me, Nancy Drew?" He added, unable to meet her eyes.

"Of course not. Made me curious, and concerned."

"Precisely," Sherlock turned his glare to the city outside, as if something out the window could absorb his blame. "We're being played like a perfect game, and there's nothing I hate more than being a part of someone else's game. Don't you understand yet? Everything that's gone on, every lead and circumstance has been carefully contrived to play us against each other. No—" He stopped suddenly, losing his fervor and train of thought when he looked at Nancy. Her pretty features were lit up with concentration, her own mind whirring behind her bright eyes to the point that he could almost trace the movement of her thoughts. Her light red hair was pushed over one shoulder and he felt his eyes trace down her neck.

"No, worse than that. They're playing us _for_ each other."

Nancy huffed. "This is absurd. Why would anyone do that?"

John chimed in, gently, "Moriarty wanted to 'burn the heart out of you', Sherlock. Maybe they're trying to finish the job."

Sherlock suddenly wheeled around and faced Nancy, impossibly close. But she didn't flinch back; she stood her ground with determination.

"Who are you, Nancy Drew?" he demanded.

John stood up. "Sherlock…"

"You just answered your own question."

"Who are you really?" He searched her eyes for a sign of falsehood, of deception, of the sort that he missed in Irene Adler, but he was met only with cool confidence.

"You really think I'm working against you? After everything we've been through together?"

"Oh, what of it. You could be anyone at all. I refuse to play this game a moment longer. I think you should leave at once." He dropped into his chair, pulled his violin to his chin, and began screeching out a horrible melody.

"Sherlock. I think it's alright to trust Nancy," John said quietly.

"It's alright John, I understand. Sherlock has to protect himself the only way he knows how—by pretending emotions are weakness."

"In this case, they are," he spat, and dragged the bow roughly over the strings. "In most cases, honestly."

John shook his head sadly, and trailed after Nancy as she went to the door. "It's alright," she repeated. "I can get to the bottom of this on my own." She picked herself up straight and slipped out onto the street.


	15. Chapter 15

"… so I'm guessing that Josh somehow got involved with this underground criminal organization…" Nancy said as she reached across Bridget's dining table for a slice of bread to sop up the left-over tomato sauce on her plate. Bridget made a small gasping noise.

"But how would he have even gotten involved?" She asked, eyes turning misty. Nancy smiled and patted Bridget's hand as she sat back.

"Don't worry, I know he wasn't into any of that. He might have just gotten curious." She said as she smoothly wiped her plate clean with the chunk of bread, taking slow, small bites.

"Anyway," Nancy began as she swallowed her bite of food. "I have two friends coming out to visit for a little while."

"How lovely! Will they need somewhere to stay?" Bridget's face began to lighten as the topic moved from the dark matter to a more light and happy one. Nancy laughed and tucked a leg underneath her. A couple days had passed since the incident with Mrs. Hudson. She hadn't spoken to either Sherlock or John for a while and she began to wonder about Holmes and his current state. John said he was a delicate thing, as hard as he tried to portray himself as the opposite.

"No, I think they've been secretly planning this ever since I told them I was coming here for a while. They plan on arriving tomorrow I guess. They've booked a hotel over in Leicester, actually-"

Nancy was interrupted by a loud buzzing noise from her purse, which lay directly beneath her chair. She grabbed the bag and dug through the seemingly endless pit until her fingers met the cold plastic of her phone-case. She pulled it out and unlocked the device to find a text message almost screaming at her to open it.

_Hey! We are about to board soon, just wanted to let ya know. – George_

_Thanks love. See the two of you soon._

Nancy beamed up at Bridget. "My friends are boarding the plane!"

Bridget clapped her hands and grinned.

"That's so fabulous. Now you can go off and do girly things, yeah?"

Nancy grinned and bobbed her head yes, until her phone vibrated once more. Curious, she checked her phone again. They probably wouldn't have responded that quickly…

_Good thing he has John to help him. You should see him. What a mess!_

_-A fan_

Nancy leaned back against the dining chair and stared at the phone screen. She knew Sherlock was fine. John was there to help him, just as the mystery person had said… right? She quickly composed a message to Sherlock (cursing the fact that she never got John's number before), sadness drifting over her as she thought that she'd probably never be close to the detective again, especially if he kept his word.

_Are you okay? Just got a weird text. – Nancy_

Her concentration was torn away from the situation as the doorbell of Bridget's flat echoed. Bridget cursed under her breath and walked up to the door. Nancy swung her legs to the side of the chair and hopped up, until she heard the voice of Detective Inspector Lestrade carry to her ears. She paused for a brief moment to listen.

"Well," he began. "We have reason to believe your guest has been breaking and entering into the Scotland Yard archives."

Nancy yelped quietly and made her way over to the entrance, smiling sheepishly as her eyes met Lestrade's. He cleared his throat and extended his arm out with brows raised, a gesture asking for admittance into the apartment. Bridget shrugged and escorted him in, shutting the door behind him. Lestrade made his way to the living room and sat down where he did previously, as did Nancy. He rested his hands in his lap and smiled at the girl.

"I assume you heard that conversation."

Nancy nodded and crossed her legs. She needed to channel her inner Carson Drew. She sat with her shoulders back and gave off a strong and confident demeanor. She could almost hear her dad laughing at her, commenting on how he 'didn't sit like that' or how she needed to 'not be as meek and try again'.

"Yes, and as I'm sure you're fully aware of by now, I do have a small criminal record, if you could even call it that. My father is a lawyer and we have had all charges against me removed due to the circumstances that I committed these acts for the greater good."

Lestrade smirked and leaned back in the chair, staring at Nancy. "I still need to bring you in for questioning. I was ordered to earlier. We can't have anyone rooting around in there, especially an American girl on vacation. We don't have any recorded evidence against you, Miss Drew. Just received an anonymous tip this afternoon, that's all."

_Great,_ she thought. _Now they're trying to frame me. What's new?_

Nancy glared at him, crossing her arms across her chest and reciprocated his posture by leaning back against the sofa. He chuckled to himself and stood up, slinging his briefcase under his arm.

"I'm going to give you the benefit of the doubt, Miss Drew."

Nancy's jaw almost hit the ground. It was that easy? Her and Lestrade connected eyes and he gave her a weak smile.

"You remind me of Holmes. Have you heard about him at all?"

Nancy mirrored his smile and felt her heart leap into her throat.

"Sort of, yeah."

Lestrade nodded a goodbye to Nancy and shook Bridget's hand. Nancy got up and gathered the empty plates that rested on the dining table and walked into the kitchen. She rested them beside the sink and began to work at the residual bits of food that stuck to the plate. The voices behind her were hushed and the door eventually shut close. Bridget groaned loudly and walked into the kitchen, carrying the left-over food and placing them into their respective containers to be eaten later.

"He's a git, isn't he?" Bridget chimed, a knowing twinkle glistening in her eye.

"Goodness, he sure is." Nancy said, giggling like a teenage girl with Bridget. When the dishes were finished, Nancy yawned and hugged Bridget goodnight. Tomorrow would be an eventful and tiring day of shopping and gossiping with her two best friends.

* * *

Baker Street was quiet, save for the thumping noises of Sherlock moving his things back into his beloved flat. Everything was almost back to normal, especially as he rested his skull back on the mantle place. He sighed and was overwhelmed by the overwhelming desire to smoke a cigarette.

_Just one wouldn't hurt, _he thought to himself as she stared at his chair, where a pack hid underneath the cushion. _Is she really worth it, though?_

Snoring noises came from the upstairs, telling Sherlock that John had finally reached a deep slumber. He envied the doctor's ability to just sleep. Sherlock hadn't slept for a few days, which was accentuated by the dark circles rimming his blood-red eyes. He sighed again and braced himself against his chair when his phone made a soft beeping noise from his pocket. He reached inside and pulled it out. A new message.

_Are you okay? Just got a weird text. – Nancy_

"Fuck off," he muttered, burying his hands into the bottom of the couch cushion. He grasped the box of smokes and trotted down the stairs, exchanging his cell-phone for a lighter. He slunk outside the flat and began what felt like a never-ending walk. He toured the streets of London late at night, watching as the world went by. He shoved a cigarette between his lips and flicked the lighter on, pushing the end into the flame. He took a long drag and let the smoke roll off his lips. Ecstasy hit him instantly.

Images of a ginger girl stayed in his mind the whole time. She laughed, cried, kissed, and smiled coyly. He grunted as he shoved cigarette after cigarette into his mouth, trying to repress the feelings he was experiencing. He hated women, especially ones that left disgusting thoughts lingering in his mind.

His legs carried him around and around until he found himself back at Baker Street again. He'd finished the pack and the sky was beginning to turn a soft, burnt orange; a sure sign that he would need to return before John got suspicious. He silently closed the doors behind him and moved cat-like to the living area, opening up John's laptop to make it seem like he was just working through the night.

Almost as if it were on cue, John emerged from upstairs in his dressing gown, yawning and rubbing the back of his neck.

"You sleep at all?" He asked, walking to the kitchen to prepare his morning tea.

"A little bit."


	16. Chapter 16

Hey readers,

Sorry about the long wait on this one! I've been super distracted and dying of writer's block lately, but here it is, finally. In other news, SERIES THREE and GHOST OF THORNTON HALL oh my goodness both sides of this crossover have exciting things coming soon.

-Ray (letyoursoul)

* * *

The first words out of Bess Marvin's mouth when Nancy opened the front door to her were: "Where is your mysterious detective man?"

George pushed her out of the way and gave Nancy a hug. Nancy laughed nervously. "First of all, he isn't _my_ detective. And he's not really working with me anymore. But guys, it's so good to see you," she grinned at them, relieved to be among familiar faces at last. Much more conductive of good detective work than the company of high functioning sociopaths, she assured herself.

"Let's go get coffee. I want to tell you two everything that's been going on."

Sherlock was bent over a very old blueprint from the city archives that he may or may not have permission to be using. Friends in high places and all that. The subway tunnels were stretching out before his eyes, twisting and turning back on themselves, and he was piecing them together into pictures, symbols, hieroglyphics, sequential patterns of color or cardinal direction, anything he could pull from the recesses of his mind. And yet, he felt a terrible absence of understanding. The image of the door lock flashed behind his closed eyes, and when he opened them again, he tried to relate it to the old blueprint. Then he compared it with a new blueprint beside it, looking for discrepancies.

"Where are the answers, John!?" He yelled, slamming his palms down on the table, making his cold cup of tea rattle in the saucer. John just peeled back the corner of his newspaper without flinching and replied, "The answers probably lie with a redhead. Just my guess." He hid behind the newspaper again.

"Damn you, John."

"I'm here to help, Sherlock."

"No…no! John you are brilliant. Brilliant!" He leapt up suddenly with a realization. Their fan had been silent for days. No texts, notes, mysterious packages. It was a game, after all, and they had stopped playing, and so had their fan. The only way to get more leads was to play the part.

"I must go and fetch Nancy Drew," he said, emphasizing her name as if the walls were listening. Honestly, they might have been. Someone was definitely watching.

"That's my boy," muttered John into his paper.

Sherlock visibly winced when he approached the outdoor café table around which sat Nancy and her two friends. Oh, god. Chattering women. A pack of three of them. Give him Moriarty, any day.

When Nancy saw him her face went pale, and Bess and George noticed immediately and fell silent. "Can we help you?" Bess asked in the most seductive and commanding voice she could muster.

"I seriously doubt it. Nancy, a word alone?"

She crooked an eyebrow at him. "Nice to see you too. Finally realize you need my help?"

"I will say no more in the presence of these strangers."

"Oh, sorry about that," her voice dripped with sarcasm. His rude treatment of her had not yet been forgotten. "This is Bess, and this is George. They're my closest friends and I trust them with my life. Please understand that anything you have to say to me can be said in front of them."

Sherlock rolled his eyes and pulled up a chair unceremoniously. "Please step off your high horse, Nancy Drew." He nodded briefly at her friends, the only greeting they would receive. "To business. Have you heard from our fan at all?"

"Nada."

"As I assumed then. We will only be provided with leads and a connection to this case so long as we play along. Do you understand?"

"I might be developing an understanding…"

He dropped his voice to a hushed growl and leaned a bit closer. "He has tried to establish familiarity between us. A connection. So long as that progressed, he feels as though he has the upper hand, because where there is a connection, there is the potential to sever it, with dire consequences. To ruin us, or set us against each other, or make us believe the other is false."

"I understand. So what are we supposed to do about it? Pretend to be madly in love like we have no idea it's all a set up?"

"Ah, Nancy Drew. It is nice that I don't have to spell everything out for you," He leaned back in his chair and worried his fingers together, watching the crowds walking by.

Bess stifled a laugh, but it shot out in a little burst anyway. "This is _gold_," she said.

"But what happens at the end of this game? They can still try to manipulate you," George warned.

"Indeed," Sherlock murmured, "But they are foolish to have assumed that the likes of Nancy and I would fall prey to any of that."

"So…you're saying I'm an adequate detective," Nancy gave him a sweet smile.

"What did I say about that high horse," he snapped, but there was the unmistakable hint of a smile there, too.

The group ordered another round of lattes and discussed strategies on getting back into the subway system without meeting any more blows to the head. Sherlock showed Nancy pictures of the blueprints on his phone, and she squinted her eyes in concentration.

"There," she said after less than a minute with the pictures, pointing as she flicked back and forth between the old and the new. Sherlock stared at her in acute annoyance that she discovered anything at all where he could not. "What is it?" he muttered.

Nancy put the phone down in the middle of the table so they could all see. "See this dotted line here? It's a solid line in the new blueprint."

"That could signify a hollow wall, or a doorway maybe?" George offered.

"That's what I'm thinking," Nancy continued. "And that section's nowhere near the door we found, the one that our fan directed us to. This is something else that was in the original blueprint, but then was changed in the modern versions that people would be seeing. So, a detail not accessible to the public."

"Or it could simply be a mistake on the copyist's part," Sherlock grumbled.

"Oh, we're going to have a detective-off, aren't we? You two just trying to out-do each other and find the most clues," Bess laughed. Sherlock shot her a glare that could cut through diamond, and her smile dropped. She picked up her coffee cup and sipped innocently.

Around them, the city of London rushed on. Face after nameless face drifted past, and windows watched from every angle. Nancy thought about how many secrets were moving behind the scenes, in the shadows, and apparently in tunnels underground. Discovering such things would always be her calling. Foolish of their fan to assume that she and Sherlock could be tricked, yes. They would always be one step ahead, and they would expose the nefarious parts of the world to the light. She watched Sherlock's face as he went back to comparing the two blueprint pictures, his hair falling over his eyes a bit, but he didn't bother to push it out of the way. He would probably say it was a waste of energy and there were more important things to do with his hands. Nancy smiled to herself, imagining that, and found herself realizing she wouldn't mind pretending to be fond of this particular mystery.


	17. Chapter 17

The thundering echoes of long feet slamming against the tube tracks reverberated against the cement walls of the London Underground, accompanied by the soft tapping of flat shoes just a beat off. The air was particularly cold, much colder than above on the surface. It was late at night and the Stratford station was completely deserted, save for the few homeless people scattered about, attempting to sleep while dreams of hopefully ridding their poverty danced in their minds.

The noisy feet stopped abruptly as the bodies they were connected to made their arrival at a wall with an etched symbol upon it.

"Okay." Nancy Drew said, rummaging through her purse and pulling out her cell-phone. She backed up, running into her partner in the process as she opened the camera application. He grunted in protest, but stuck a leg out a bit further behind him to brace the two of them up. She snorted quietly and shook her head, muttering an apology as she took a picture of the symbol.

"Why are you taking a picture of it on your mobile? I remember it."

"So do I," she began. "But I just wanted to make sure. It's better to be safe than sorry, Sherlock."

Sherlock Holmes sighed and shoved a hand into her purse, grasping onto the older blue-print that mapped out the area. He pointed at the dashed line and looked back up at Nancy as she turned herself around to face him. A scorn look wrinkled her nose and caused her eyebrows to furrow. He chuckled and curtly waved a hand towards her.

"I could have had something in there I didn't want you seeing!" Nancy exclaimed, crossing her arms in front of her chest. A smirk formed on his lips and he shifted his glance towards the girl, observing her briefly before playfully raising an eyebrow.

"Oh, like what, a tampon?"

Nancy's tough façade turned into a combined look of shock and surprise. Her face turned a bright red as she shrugged her bag further up onto her shoulder. The man gave a throaty laugh and swished the prints in the air, causing Nancy to roll her eyes. She snatched them out of his hand and walked back to the platform, curling up on the concrete and rolling the blue-print out in front of her. She looked up at Sherlock.

"You have your gun with you, right?" She asked worriedly. He nodded, sending a wave of comfort over her. He stood next to her, hand in his pocket, resting on the handle of the gun, wiggling his fingers around so she could see the outline of the pistol. Nancy smiled and turned to her right, digging through her bag and whipping a pencil out. She began to trace the symbol across the map, grinning as she pumped a fist in the air.

"Look! The symbol perfectly fits these hallway things and the path spits us out right by the dotted line."

Sherlock knelt down next to her and touched his fingertip to the graphite outline and smiled.

"Good work." He said, whisking the blue-print into his now free right hand.

"Was that a compliment?" Nancy teased, moving her legs underneath her and lifting herself off of the hard ground. Sherlock began to walk out of the station as he took his phone out of his pocket, tapping the screen and lifting it to his ear. He handed the prints back to Nancy and looked over his shoulder, narrowing his eyes and giving her a crooked, playful quip of a smile.

"John, we're finished."

Nancy dashed after him, slowing down her strides as she arrived to the left of the cryptic man. When she looked up towards the stairs, she saw a pair of shadows that were waiting around the corner. Nancy stuck her head forward and looked up to Sherlock, who was glancing down as he walked forward. He hadn't noticed the dark figures yet. She clasped her hand to his arm and pulled her body closer. As he looked down with a confused look, she tilted her head in the direction of the mysterious guests. He paused.

"Alright, can't wait to go out for drinks. See you at the pub, yeah? Later."

Sherlock looked down at her as he stuffed his phone in his pocket and pulled his arm away from her grasp. Instead, he wrapped it around her side. Nancy made a quick note that Sherlock hadn't hung up the phone.

_Safety precaution_, Nancy thought.

"Can you fake an accent?" He whispered.

"I can try." She said with a hint of amusement in her voice. "Wouldn't they notice us either way?"

Sherlock took his signature coat and scarf off, stuffing them inside of Nancy's purse. She grunted at the extra weight and watched him smooth his hair back against his head. She began to catch onto the semi-disguise process as she pulled a hair-tie out of the nearest pocket of her purse and tied her hair up in a thick bun at the nape of her neck. She couldn't help it but snort at Sherlock's hair, which had miraculously been tamed back onto his head. He sent a glaring look her way and clutched to her tighter.

The hushed voices from the pair around the corner finally reached their ears. Sherlock prepared himself and slid his hand down a little bit lower than Nancy would prefer, causing her to lock her jaw and huff quietly. The two trotted up the stairs until they bumped into two gentlemen, one very broad and the other short and stout, who were sharing a cigarette. One of them nodded at Sherlock as the other snickered at Nancy.

"Nice one, mate, nice one. Find a good spot down there, eh?" The fatter one said, chuckling to himself. The thinner one flicked a butt off his smoke and leaned against the wall as Sherlock laughed loudly and patted Nancy on the rear. If they weren't undercover, she would have punched him right there, square into his prominent cheekbones. She winced at the thought of her knuckles connecting with his sharp facial features and how it'd probably hurt her more than him. All three of the men laughed coarsely, causing Nancy to turn bright red.

"You seen another lanky fellow round here?" The fat one asked. Nancy looked behind her shoulder as they passed, the slight scent of alcohol teasing her nose. They were definitely looking for her and Sherlock, but were way too intoxicated to actually realize that their prey was right in front of them. Nancy shook her head and shrugged.

"Sorry, just us down there." Her accent was forced, but the two would probably never notice. She could visibly see Sherlock's shoulders trembling as he laughed to himself. She shot a glare up at the tall man as she turned her head back around to the front.

"Ah well." The skinny one said, a bored and almost defeated sound in his voice. Sherlock waved over his head and extended their walking pace until they reached the bright lights of night-time London. John spotted them from the spot he designated to be his waiting space and dashed up, shaking his head.

"They didn't even realize it was you?" He asked. Sherlock shook his head and ruffled his hair with his hands, returning it to its original poofy state. Nancy fixed her hair as well, releasing it from its bun and combing through it with her fingers.

"No, though they should have. Your accent was horrendous."

"Oh hush!" Nancy exclaimed in an annoyed tone, taking Sherlock's things out of her purse and tossing them at him. "They were too drunk to notice anyway."

The three began to make their way down the street, with Sherlock compiling a plan within his head.

"Either tomorrow night or the night after, we will go back down and trace the pathway of the system on foot. We'll need to find the first doorway, however…" Sherlock mumbled to himself. Nancy sighed loudly and shot a smile to John as she dug her phone out of her pocket. She had three unread messages; all from Bess and George, who were raving about how great the fashion and food were in London. Nancy made a soft, content noise as she fiddled with her phone, smiling as she looked down. The absence of a message was neither good, nor bad, but the feeling of comfort washed over her as she was finally able to relax. The random texts and phone calls sent her over the edge, waiting and waiting for the next one. Tonight, however, she was going to enjoy herself as much as possible.

"So, back to 221B?" Nancy questioned, piling into a cab that John had hailed as Nancy checked her phone. Both men nodded in agreement as Nancy sent a quick text message to Bridget, letting her know that she planned to stay over at Sherlock and John's flat.

Nancy and John chatted quietly as Sherlock stared at the blue-prints, deciphering where their designated entrance would be. He compared multiple maps of the underground to the prints, grunting murmurs to himself as he drew lines and circles. Nancy stole a glance at him briefly during a pause in her and John's conversation, smiling to herself as the detective knitted his eyebrows together and tapped his foot impatiently.

_The entrance isn't at Stratford. Where would it be? North. Leyton stop is north. Must be in between those two. Surveyed area, not around Stratford. Entrance is at Leyton._

"Seeing the Olympic stadium was really interesting."

"Hmm? Oh. Yes."

Sherlock's eyes traveled upward to find Nancy Drew curled up on the couch in what appeared to be his sheets, reading a book. He grunted and walked to the table, laying out all the maps neatly.

"The entrance will probably be accessed through the stop just north of the Stratford one. We need prints on a larger scale."

Nancy sighed and slipped her book back into her bag, crossing her legs over each other. Sherlock rested his pen on top of the maps, and then reached up to rub his eyes. The lack of sleep was beginning to get to him, as was the never-ending craving for a cigarette. As he removed his hands, he found himself watching Nancy as she adjusted pillows for her upcoming slumber.

Her hair waved softly around her face, sticking to her cheeks, which were also accompanied by a small smudge of her makeup. Sherlock gritted his teeth as he turned his eyes away. The lingering idea of perfection harassed his mind, causing his fingers to tremble slightly and heart to beat a little bit faster. He hated thinking people were perfect. He never thought anyone as being 'perfect', especially due to how loose of a word it was.

She triggered that ultimate desire that he clutched onto. He never wanted to share himself with anybody else, not even John, but here was this girl; intelligent, attractive, fresh, kind, determined. She was going to ruin him, and the fact that he couldn't resist the destruction was the most worrying part in his mind.

He looked back at her body, which had now taken to lying on her stomach as she toyed around with her phone. Sherlock found his eyes tracing the outline of her body, mentally cursing himself as he felt his pulse increasing. He swore under his breath, causing Nancy to look over her shoulder with a questioning face. He smiled, which probably made her even more suspicious, and walked over to his chair.

"You didn't ask to use my sheets."

"Did I need to? Are you planning on sleeping?"

He chuckled and rubbed his face again, peaking out at her between the space of his middle and ring fingers.

"Touché. I'm hoping we can somehow obtain the other blue-prints."

"Maybe we'll receive a little assistance." Nancy smirked, rolling over on her side to look at him. In the process, her shirt had slid up a small bit, revealing soft, peachy skin that caused Sherlock to suck in a quick burst of air and bite down on the inside of his mouth. Every emotion he had ever felt was pent up inside and he had no idea how to release it.

"Are you okay?" She asked with a gentle demeanor. He slowly rotated his head to look at her, greeting big doe eyes and a concerned expression. He got up and walked briskly through the kitchen to a closet in the hallway next to his bathroom and tossed them by his bedroom door. He emerged from the kitchen and stood in the entryway between it and the living room. He stared at her for a minute, then strode over to her and pecked a small kiss on her forehead.

"I'm going to bed."


	18. Chapter 18

AN: PLOT TWIST ALERT. Mel wins for thinking of it. I had to write it immediately. :] Reviews always welcome, and thanks for the feedback so far! 3 Ray

* * *

Nancy sent a text to Bess just before falling asleep.

_Ever like someone you know you shouldn't?_

When the sun came up her first instinct was to grab her phone and delete the text, just in case someone got nosy. Then she mentally kicked herself for being so paranoid and silly. What was she, a schoolgirl with a crush, all of a sudden? There was work to be done; a case to be solved. Her mother's death to be avenged. She was starting to see the world like Sherlock, and it wasn't entirely unpleasant. Events had more meaning when you really saw everything. Nancy sat up and stretched, then helped herself to a shower. Just as she was exiting the bathroom, Sherlock glided past her in the hallway.

"Morning," she said quietly, aware of her towel dried hair and lack of make-up. Sherlock grunted in response and moved into the kitchen. Definitely not a morning person.

John followed shortly and began preparing them all breakfast. Bess and George showed up at the door just in time for free food. They sat down around the table, except for Sherlock, who paced nervously, uneasy about the amount of cheerful human beings talking and eating before noon in his house.

"So what's our plan of action?" George prompted. "Are we all just going to march up to the tunnel entrance that you guys found on the blueprints?"

"We don't really have any new leads otherwise, do we?" Nancy answered.

As if responding to them, Nancy and Sherlock's phones went off in unison.

_It's too bad I missed you last night. So rude of my colleagues not to give you a proper welcome. But no matter, I took care of them._

_-A fan_

They looked up from their phones and met each other's eyes. "What's it say?" Bess demanded. Nancy showed her, and Bess gasped. "Do you think they were _killed_?"

Sherlock heaved out a weary sigh. "I'm not sure what you're expecting, Nancy." He found her friends to be dull and common, and decided to blame her for that. "This isn't some small town jewel thief. This is, quite possibly, the largest and longest operating crime organization in the country…"

"And what, I'm not taking it seriously? What do _you_ propose we do, Worlds Only Consulting Detective? I'm consulting you," Nancy snapped.

Sherlock grabbed his violin and slid out a few forceful notes, his face pinched in concentration and frustration. The others paused eating and waited anxiously.

"I think we should be stupid," Nancy said at last.

"Won't be a stretch for you all," Sherlock responded.

"I mean it. We need to make a mistake to stir things up so we can get more information."

"What sort of mistake?"

"Like, text them back." Nancy clicked out a message on her phone and sent it before anyone could stop her.

_Love to meet up for real this time. Time and place, and we'll be there._

_-ND_

John shook his head. "This is dangerous."

"Call me Nancy Danger Drew."

Sherlock physically bit back the urge to smirk at her. They waited in a hushed silence until Nancy's phone beeped a reply.

_I'm sure we're all tired of tunnels. How about the roof of St. Bart's? Right now. Just you two._

_-A fan_

Sherlock read over her shoulder and gritted his teeth. "You have absolutely got to be joking." John read the text and stood up. "No, no way, not happening. Not again."

"Not again?" George asked.

"Last time I was on the roof of St. Bart's I had to take a bit of a fall for a friend," Sherlock said gently.

"Sherlock, you are not going. And neither is Nancy. No one else is getting hurt."

"With all due respect, John, the circumstances being as they are—"

"I won't let anything happen to us. I've met up with my fair share of angry criminals, and I'm pretty good at getting out of it in one piece," Nancy reasoned. John rubbed his eyes.

"This is too much."

"John," Sherlock took him by the shoulders. "I need you to do something for me. Take…them with you," he gestured nonchalantly at Bess and George, who looked vaguely insulted. "Go to the tunnels and follow the blueprints to the dotted line. We've marked it for you. You shouldn't run into any trouble while we're out engaged with our fan, or whoever he sends in his place. Either way, the focus will be trained on us. Do you understand?"

"Sherlock, no. What am I even supposed to do?"

"How should I know?" Sherlock seemed genuinely aghast. Why couldn't everyone just keep up with him and make things up as they went along? "Just find the doorway and we'll work from there."

"Oh boy, I am so not good at winging it," Bess groaned. George looked at her sympathetically.

"Nancy, come with me," Sherlock said shortly. Nancy took a deep breath and nodded. "Alright. See you all back here, real soon, okay?" They all dispersed from 221B, Nancy looping her arm through Sherlock's as they walked down the street to get a cab to St. Bart's.

It was windy, and the air whipped through Sherlock's scarf and dashed Nancy's hair across her face in a spray of orange. She let her hand slide from his arm down to curl together with his fingers. They didn't look at each other, but stood in silence on the rooftop, the city of London murmuring below them. Sherlock absent mindedly took Nancy's pulse and found it surprisingly steady. He looked at her sideways then, his eyebrows curled up in curiosity. When she looked back, he noticed a jump in her pulse, and smiled. A smile spread slowly across her face as well.

"The thrill of the case. You love it, don't you. You need it," he said quietly.

"Maybe," Nancy replied.

He thought about kissing her again then, about the crash of his lips into hers and winding his arms around her and feeling the wind hiss and break around their bodies as they laughed at danger and played with minds of criminals and did it all together, of like minds and spirits. Instead, there was a voice behind them. A woman's voice.

"How's your game going so far? Think you have me cornered?"

Sherlock and Nancy spun around to face the owner of the voice, Sherlock's right hand jumping instinctually to the weight of the gun in his coat pocket. Then the three of them stood very still, waiting for the next move.

The woman was elegant; dressed in a tailored black dress suit, complete with skirt and stilettos. She wore deep red lipstick and lashes that would have put black and white film stars to shame. There was a cold, pointed sort of air to her features, and she looked at them from behind the confident smirk of someone who is used to getting what they want.

"You said we knew each other. I've never seen you before," Nancy said evenly.

She laughed, a cutting sound. "We've only spoken. You impersonated me, actually. I was working in Italy at the time."

Nancy's eyes widened. "_Samantha Quick_?" she hissed incredulously.

"In the flesh. Never thought I'd see the day when you two would be in the same place, at the same time. It truly is marvelous."

"You're our fan, then," Sherlock said.

"The biggest. Oh, Nancy, I've watched you stir up trouble since your friend was kidnapped in the Royal Palladium. I was trying to be an actress in those days, and I worked with Simone. Honestly, you inspired me. I needed so much more than the life of an actress. I am so much more than that," Samantha's voice was like flame, a furnace ready to boil at any moment. She stepped closer, and Nancy flinched back instinctually. Sherlock held her in place, determined not to show any sign of intimidation.

"And Sherlock Holmes. The Sherlock Holmes. After I got in with Moriarty—" he twitched at the name—"I knew it would only be a matter of time before we'd have to destroy you. Poor James did his best, but he was just too worked up. I prefer to keep more of a professional distance from my job, you see?" Slowly, she walked past them and looked out at the city.

"Yes and now you're here to finish the job, et cetera. What happens now? Do you convince Nancy and me to jump off the roof because honestly, you're lacking originality," Sherlock growled.

Samantha Quick laughed again, and the sound sent a shiver down their spine. "I'm not going to kill you! That all comes later. You're not ready for that part yet. And I do so much enjoy watching you play along."

Nancy didn't like the sound of that. It was as if Samantha knew their strategy all along and really was one step ahead of them. It was impossible to know.

"What happened to my mother," Nancy demanded suddenly.

"Oh honey, I don't know nor do I care. That was ages before I knew Moriarty's boys. All I know is that you both seem to be insufferable little snitches."

Nancy nearly broke Sherlock's hand in her sudden deadly grip. "Nancy, it's alright," Sherlock murmured.

Samantha smiled darkly. "Well, so much to do, I'm a busy woman after all. It was lovely having this chat, and I hope you feel much better about your little case. But I must be off." She turned and started back for the door to the stairs. "And if you follow me, you'll both be dead in about seven seconds," she added without turning around. She held up her hand, ready to snap her fingers at any moment, to solidify the point. Then she was gone.

"Nothing," Sherlock growled, pulling away from Nancy and stomping to the edge of the building in anger.

"What?"

"She gave us nothing. Nothing new to work with at all."

"Actually, that's not true," Nancy said, walking up beside him, following his gaze in the direction of the tunnels where they had sent John, Bess and George, as if they could see through the ground and know they were alright.

"What more do we know now?" He asked.

"Samantha Quick is an alias. In her arrogant need to tell her story, she really slipped up in linking herself to Simone. That agent mentioned 'Samantha Quick' as a stage name while I was talking to her. I used the name as my own alias years later only to be threatened by a woman on the phone, claiming to be the real Samantha Quick."

"What good is it that we know it's an alias?"

"The point, Sherlock, is that Simone would know her real name, if Simone assigned her that same stage name. And her real name could lead us to some real information."

He thought it over for a moment.

"This is why I keep you around," Sherlock replied at last.


	19. Chapter 19

_Can we please just make drewlock an actual ship? Also I made a graphic for the last chapter. THINGS: tagged/drewlock_

_If someone draws us fan art, I will mail you a friendship bracelet. GO._

_Okay that's all._

_-Ray_

* * *

"So… locked door. Uhh…"

"Too bad we don't have Nancy Drew here."

The trio of sidekicks all took a step back and looked at the massive door ahead of them. The three had managed to wrestle their way into a train station, follow a passageway that Nancy Drew and Sherlock Holmes had outlined for them on a pair of really old blue-prints, and were now stuck at a locked door with a number-pad locking system.

"What would she say?" Bess Marvin asked, a pondering look across her face. "'It's locked'?"

Her cousin George Fayne chimed in with laughter, exchanging a knowing glance with Bess. Their accompanying new found friend, Dr. John Watson, stared at the two bewilderedly.

"Right… I'm going to text Sherlock, we should be off then."

"No! Shouldn't we figure this thing out?" George grabbed onto John's arm and pulled him towards her as he swiftly turned on his heel to make a hasty retreat. "They'd just send us back here anyway!"

John stared at the two girls. Both looked so eager and ready to solve this never-ending stream of puzzles, their eyes glinting with curiosity. John let out a heavy sigh and couldn't help it but mentally admire the two girls. George and Bess were quite like Nancy; maybe there was something in the water over in River Heights. Then his mind quickly flashed back to a shot of his best friend tip-toeing the edge of St. Bartholomew's Hospital and a lump formed in his throat.

"No, no. We are leaving right now. I don't want anything to happen to them."

"Why are you so concerned? John, we completely trust Nancy, as I'm sure you do with Sherlock. They wouldn't let anyone hurt the other, would they?"

John had been walking back when he paused for a moment. He looked over his shoulder at both of the young women and shook his head.

"Last time he died he was trying to save me. I won't let that happen again."

"Wait, last time?!" Bess squeaked as John began to take his steady, militaristic walking pace towards the exit. "Watson! We need details!"

_We found a locked door. The mechanism is a num-pad type thing. – J_

_Good. Take a photo if you can. – SH_

"Any luck?"

Sherlock Holmes chuckled, shaking his head as he walked towards the door leaving the rooftop of St. Bart's. "Somewhat. Let's head ho-"

He turned himself around to find a swaying redhead sitting on the edge of the roof, propping herself up by placing her hands behind her. He almost gasped as he ran towards her, his arms swooping around her middle like a lasso, and pulling her up to him. Sherlock spun her around and stared at her, his heart moving a million miles a minute.

"Don't do that." His cool exterior was beginning to falter as he looked at her. He wanted to scoff, run away, maybe jump off the hospital again, anything; he didn't want to feel human emotion. He was perfectly content being a machine, but there was something about that silly little American girl that made him betray himself as he watched her eyes glint with excitement when she solved something or how her nose wrinkled a little bit between her eyes whenever she laughed. Maybe it was how compassionate she was, or the way she always listened to people, never failing to stick around for the entire conversation.

"Oh my gosh. Sherlock, I forgot." She sucked her upper-lip in between her teeth and began to nibble lightly, her eyes searching his face for any small hint of hurt, anger, or any feeling at all. The wind began to whip around them a bit harder, causing his coat to swish around them loudly, yet both stood there as still as statues. He began to think about how mad their whole situation was – they were being led on a wild goose chase by a woman who looked like something out of old Hollywood and was connected to his deceased arch-nemesis. It all sounded too familiar. He laughed to himself, looking up at the skyline of London and for once, admiring the view of his beloved city.

"Are you okay?" Nancy asked with a meek voice. Sherlock's laugh dissipated into a smile as he returned his glance to her, his left arm slowly wrapping around her as he gestured with the other one. He nodded his head slightly and pressed his palm against her back, creating pressure that egged her forward.

The two exited the rooftop and retreated down the stairs. His gun was heavy in his pocket as he reminded himself that he was never alone when dealing with crime syndicates and the like. He pulled Nancy a bit closer to his side, eyes darting left and right as they finally entered the hospital.

It was a quiet and relatively not busy day. A few nurses passed by, coupled with confused looks and whispers of "Isn't that the dead detective?" He couldn't help it but smirk to himself.

London was also calm that evening as the sun began to set and dinner was being served in homes throughout the town. He hailed a cab and kept Nancy close to him, his arm wrapped around her like a scarf at all times.

"Sherlock?" She asked quietly, shifting a little bit in her seat inside the cab.

"Mmm?" He responded as he sent a text to John telling him that they'd be back at Baker Street soon.

"What are we?"

He slid his phone into the pocket of his trousers and turned to look at her, lifting an eyebrow into an arch.

"I don't understand what you mean." He lied, exchanging his glance from her to out the window as he watched the world go by around them. Nancy huffed and rotated her body more, poking him on the shoulder.

"Me. You. I don't get what we are. Are we friends? Just simply a partnership?" She said in an attempt to coax anything out of him. "Something else?" Sherlock grunted a curse under his breath and looked back at her, his eyes darting left to right, analyzing her.

Posture sagging. Won't keep eye contact. Hands folded in lap. Body is stiff, yet shifts around. Corners of mouth twitching. Blinking slowed. Upset.

He brought his hands up to his face and rubbed his forehead, pinching his temples as he attempted to process his story, the continuation of his lie. He didn't want romantic ties to Nancy Drew, no matter how drawn he was to her.

"No, okay. I get it. We're partners." She patted him on the shoulder reassuringly, but the air in the cab began to thicken with the awkward undertones of the conversation. It felt like hours had passed when they arrived back at 221 Baker Street, both eagerly running inside the flat to escape what could be.

Bess, George, and John were all seated around the living room, all chatting and getting along well. Nancy beamed as she walked in the door.

"You guys will never guess who I ran into." She motioned to Bess and George.

"Who?" George asked, a huge goofy smile appearing on her face.

"Samantha Quick. Apparently she's our biggest fan."

"Oh my gosh! Wasn't that the spy lady you pretended to be when you were in Italy that one time?" Bess asked, her eyes turning the size of silver dollars. Nancy grinned from ear to ear. John's face dropped into a blank stare.

"I give up. I give up on attempting to gain any gram of understanding of the two of you. You both make literally no sense whatsoever." He moaned as he shook his head. "Disguising as a spy, bloody hell. You two are perfect for each other."

A snicker emerged from Bess. George punched her in the shoulder and shushed her with a glare. Nancy rolled her eyes nonchalantly and made her way to the couch.

"You all find anything?"

"Yeah, I sent Sherlock a photo. We traveled through the hallways and got lost for a little bit, but ended up finding our way, just as you instructed. We came across this door, a big one, and it was locked with a number pad on the very front."

Sherlock exhaled a sigh as he began to type on the open laptop on his desk. Nancy could feel her irritation level rising.

"Did you try to put in a password?" Nancy inquired, whipping out her trusty journal and began to jot down notes. John looked perplexed momentarily, but quickly pushed the bewilderment out of his mind and looked over towards Bess and George, offering them a turn to speak.

"Well," Bess began. "We didn't know what exactly to punch in. I tried your birthday, but it wouldn't fit the last two digits. We tried Sherlock's, but that took the whole date."

"Did they light up or anything? Did any of the numbers stay down?"

"Yeah, actually. We tried yours and it took the numbers in, but they were all rejected. They all lit up and none of the buttons stayed down. John said Sherlock's birthday was January 6, 1981. Since this is the UK and all, we put in 6-1-1981 and they all lit up. The six and the eight stayed down, but none of the others would. There was a small LED screen above it so we could see what numbers we were putting in. I took a picture on my phone too." George said as she walked over and handed her the phone. Nancy nodded her head slowly and drew out a diagram of the number pad in her notebook.

"Okay. Did it start from one on the bottom or top?"

"Bottom." John replied, waving a hand towards Sherlock's laptop. "Just like a computer keyboard."

Nancy bit down on her lip in concentration until she finally had her a-ha moment.

"Well, so far we can assume that the numbers 6 and 8 are relevant to the code. They light up no matter what…" Nancy trailed off and turned to look at Sherlock, who was clearly too busy to care about the current topic.

"Holmes, any ideas?"

"Plenty," he responded sarcastically.

"How wonderful, thanks for your contribution." Nancy snapped back. He glanced over at her, unmoving except for his eyes, and returned back to concentrating on his laptop.

"Okay, well… it's getting late. George and I should get going." Bess said, laughing weakly as she attempted to break up the uncomfortable vibe.

Nancy walked to two girls out and made her way back upstairs, passing by John on the way, who was descending to go check on Mrs. Hudson. She knew he didn't want to be in the room while both Nancy and Sherlock were there – the tension between them had been so high, there was an almost lull to the static energy.

She entered the room to find the man still at his computer, brow furrowed, floppy hair a mess atop his head. She walked over and leaned over his shoulder. The whole time, he had been attempting to research Samantha Quick to no avail.

"Simone." She reminded him and traveled back to the sofa. "Should I tell Bridget I'm staying another night or should I just go home?"

He froze for a minute as he contemplated, then sighed as he turned to look at her.

"You should just stay here. I need to make sure that you're safe. You hold lots of valuable information, you know the victim-"

"What, so I'm just around because I'm a wealth of knowledge?" She scoffed, shaking her head. She stood up and grabbed her purse, flinging it over her shoulder. "Insufferable. You really are."

"Don't," He yelped, his voice beginning to falter. "Just stay. Or go grab your things, and you can use my room while you're here. I don't want you to leave." He confessed. She blew a stream of air from her nose loudly and rested her purse back against the sofa, slowly walking over to him.

"Why are you so scared?" She asked softly, taking one of his hands in hers and squeezing it reassuringly. He squeezed back and felt the lump in his throat that had been there the whole night grow.

"I'm never scared. But if I were, it would be because I don't want to lose the one person who truly empathizes with me," he croaked out.

A rush of warmth overcame her as she took him into her arms, tangling her arms behind his neck.

"I know. Me too, Holmes." She whispered back into his ear, burying her face into the crook of his neck. He began to mirror the hug, their bodies inching closer and closer. He finally pulled himself away slightly and looked straight at her with intensity for a few seconds, then dove in for a long kiss. The two finally pulled apart when they heard John's footsteps at the doorway.

"Oh, Jesus. Make good choices!" He yelled down the stairs as he went to go prepare himself for bed. Sherlock chortled and gave a loving squeeze to Nancy's side.

"Well, Miss Drew. Shall we give a call to your old friend Simone?"

Nancy laughed and rolled her eyes, sitting herself in front of Sherlock's computer and beginning to type.

"Friend is hardly an appropriate word."


	20. Chapter 20

Nancy scrolled through her nearly endless list of phone contacts and mentally patted herself on the back for keeping everyone in there just in case. It was always nice when her preparedness paid off. Just as she found Simone's name and hit send, Sherlock began dragging notes out of his violin, seemingly completely lost in his own world. Nancy shot him a look. "Do you mind?"

He snapped out of it and slowly put the instrument down, looking highly annoyed. It was evening, and that meant it was time for Sherlock to distract himself from the onslaught of boredom that was inevitable; the late hours droning into the early morning when everyone else slept, and no news was published, and no major events ever seemed to occur. At least not the type that could be found by just waiting around. He decided to focus his restless attentions instead on Nancy's phone conversation. Nancy hit the speaker button and they listened to it ring just once before Simon's harsh voice answered.

"Who the hell is this?" Sherlock smiled faintly, amused.  
"Uhm, Simone? This is Nancy Drew."  
"Nancy who?"  
"Nancy—I crawled out of your wardrobe once." Sherlock cocked his head and stared. Nancy gestured vaguely as if to say "don't worry about it."

"Nancy Drew!" Simone laughed sharply. "Course I remember you. The persistent little thing that wouldn't leave anybody alone until she got all the facts. You still in the business of poking around where you don't belong?"

"As a matter of fact, that's why I'm calling. I seem to have unearthed some rather intriguing information regarding someone you once worked with. A woman to whom you assigned the stage name Samantha Quick?" Nancy prompted.

"Samantha Quick. Yeah, I worked with her. A real diva, knew what she wanted and manipulated everyone until she got it. She was a fabulous actress but a terrible client. I was glad to see that one go."

"I would imagine so. But, Simone, I need you to tell me her real name. And as much information about her as you can."

There was silence one the other line.

"Simone?"

"You know what, for the life of me I can't remember her real name. It was years ago, honey. And I tend to forget people quickly when I don't like them. Out of sight out of mind. I don't have time for sentiment and memories—"

"Do you have records of her anywhere? Any information on her at all?"

"I'll look, okay? Soon as I get a minute."

"It's pretty important," Nancy said, rubbing her temples.

"I said I'll look, honey. I'll call you if I get any info. Later." The line went dead.

Nancy sighed and hung up her phone, tossing it back into her bag. "I guess we're back at a dead end, then, huh?"

"Not necessarily. While we don't have information to give to the police at this point, that hardly matters because they're all a bunch of useless gits anyway. We still have data which can be worked into our own conclusions. Now, I propose we move forward with infiltrating the door in the tunnel."

"Infiltrating? Really?"

"What?"

"Sometimes it's hard to believe you're for real," Nancy laughed, and rummaged through her bag. Her flashlight needed new batteries. Definitely not something she wanted to go without. As she shook the old ones out into a trash can, Sherlock pulled out his handgun and checked that it was loaded.

"Do you have any spare—hey!" Sherlock fired a shot into the wall past Nancy, who flinched and covered her head, as if that would have helped if Sherlock's aim had been off.

"Good, still works. I guess we're prepared then," Sherlock said cheerfully.

"Was that supposed to be some kind of show of power?" Nancy demanded.

Sherlock furrowed his eyebrows, genuinely not understanding. "No, I was just warming up. It's been a few days since I've fired it. And it helps me think."

"Shooting the wall. Helps you think."

"Yes."

"And you've decided that it's wise to just walk into a tunnel that most likely belongs to a giant underground criminal base that hates us armed with one handgun and a flashlight with dead batteries?"

"Aren't you curious?" He asked evenly.

"Of course I am," Nancy responded a bit too quickly. "But I'm not suicidal. Think about it logically, Sherlock. What could we possibly do against them?"

Sherlock was staggered. He squinted his eyes, picked him his violin and began violently carving out erratic scales, feeling as if his head might explode. He paced around the room, turning and walking faster each time he caught a glimpse of Nancy in his peripheral vision, because each time he did his mind was clouded with a jolt of…what was it? Weakness. He was trying to show off. He was trying to dive into danger and he had completely forgotten logic. Sherlock Holmes had forgotten logic. He began to boil with anger.

"Yes Nancy, congratulations, so glad I have you to remind me to be logical."

Nancy stood up and walked into his path, blocking his erratic pacing. "There's no need to be rude."

"I work with an assistant, not a know-it-all," he hissed. Sherlock felt wildly defensive and felt the need to assert himself, his eyes blazing at her intensely.

"So now I'm reduced to your assistant? Ugh!" Nancy threw her head back in frustration, grabbed her bag, and marched to the front door. "When you're ready to admit that you're not the only intelligent human being on the planet, feel free to call me." She slammed the door. She knew it was a bit childish, but he was childish first, so she felt justified. Nancy walked briskly down the London sidewalk to the corner where she took a cab to Bess and George's hotel. They were surprised to see her walk in the door when they opened it. Nancy tossed her bag on the couch and threw herself down after it.

"Thought you were staying with Sherlock?" George said.

"I was, but he's being a _sodding idiot_," Nancy said in a mock British accent. Bess and George looked at each other knowingly. "Lover's quarrel?" Bess smiled. Nancy rolled over enough to glare at her. "No."

"I'm just saying, you never made this much fuss over Ned," Bess said, opening up her laptop and innocently researching the name Samantha Quick. Nancy sighed. "Well, he is definitely not Ned."

There had only ever been one woman in Sherlock's life who matched him in wits. Irene Adler was clever, there was no doubt of that; but she had used that cleverness to selfishly gather up all the power and influence that she could possibly acquire for herself, and as much as Sherlock respected her, she was cruel. She had merely been a confirmation of his suspicions of the human race: people are either kind fools, or cruel thinkers. He knew which sort he was, and it was comforting to know one's place so neatly, and enjoy such a clearly organized system of classification. But suddenly Sherlock found himself writing music that was both beautiful and complex, both difficult and clear, both intelligent and…pleasant. Forgiving. On the side of the angels, but not about to fall prey to stupid mistakes. His phone did not ring, nor did he pick it up to send the call. There would be time, he knew, for words and admissions. Tonight, he scribbled furiously between long flowing phrases that drifted from his violin, while upstairs John listened and smiled, knowing Sherlock Holmes was in love.


	21. Chapter 21

John Watson woke up to the soft hum of the television on downstairs. He stretched and let out a deep yawn, shifting his body around underneath his sheets. The first thing that came to mind was coffee as the scent abrasively smacked him in the face. He grunted to himself and swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbing his robe in the process and wrapping it tightly around his body.

The enunciated words of a news reporter hit his ears as he reached the bottom of the stairs. He popped his head in the door to see Sherlock watching the television, curled up in his chair and tapping his fingers against his cheek in an impatient manner. John smiled at the familiarness of everything and made his way to the kitchen, pouring himself a tall cup of coffee.

"Late night?" He asked rhetorically. It was pretty evident that Sherlock had gotten no sleep, due to the dark, pronounced bags under his eyes and his screeching violin keeping John up until the early morning hours. It was about noon on a Saturday and John was very, very thankful that he did not have to be in at work that day. A grunted 'yes' responded to his question.

He entered the living space with his hot mug, sipping delicately and watching his flatmate stare emptily at the television screen. John furrowed his eyebrows as he realized that no, Sherlock wasn't even watching the telly; he was just staring blankly at the wall behind it. He let out a loud sigh and sat in his chair across the way, resting his cup on the end-table.

"So, where's Nancy?"

Sherlock snapped his head towards John, his eyes squinting into a glare.

"She's out."

John snorted out a laugh and leaned back further in his chair, turning his attention to the news. A sleek looking woman with a curled lip sneered on the screen, blonde hair falling in loose waves around her face. Sherlock made a small yelping noise and snatched the remote, turning the volume up louder.

"Shit! Shit, shit, that's that woman. Samantha Quick." Sherlock hissed, digging in his robe pockets, searching for his phone. In a fluidity of movement, he dialed Nancy's phone and held it up to his ear.

"Turn on your television. Just – yes, the BBC News… That is her, correct? I didn't catch the name on the bottom."

Sherlock kept the phone pressed to his ear, his eyes widening with curiosity and flicking back and forth as he processed the information.

"She's down at Waterloo by the Thames reporting a murder." He said to John, tilting his head towards his friend's direction. John turned his eyes back to the woman from Sherlock. She had a look about her that almost reminded him of Miss Adler – the femme fatale that could completely decimate you. When he turned his attention back to Sherlock, the man had hung up his phone and was very intently staring at Samantha Quick. John watched him for a moment, and then sighed loudly.

"No."

"What?"

"I know that look. I've seen that look on your face before."

Sherlock broke his concentration and gave John a confused look. He shook his head and eagerly pulled his phone back out, snapping a quick photo of the woman before she disappeared off the screen. He began to furiously tap around on his phone, and then shifted over to his laptop, plugging in the USB cord to his mobile. John stood up with his mug and leaned over Sherlock's shoulder.

"It's a reverse image search. I'm hoping it'll detect similar photos of her face, or som- Aha!"

The image results snapped up a few compromising photos of the woman, causing John to whisper a 'fuck's sake' under his breath and travel back to the kitchen to wash out his cup of coffee.

"One of these pictures," Sherlock boomed out as he dashed into the kitchen and into the hallway leading to his bedroom. "The caption read 'come find me' and gave me GPS coordinates. I won't be gone long. Tell Nancy that I'll call her as soon as I find information."

His bedroom door shut with a click, and what seemed like almost instantaneously, emerged a fully dressed Holmes, running out the door as he tied his scarf around his neck. John leaned against the counter, a wave of uncomfortable feelings crossing his mind. He was scared of what was going to happen when Sherlock met this Samantha Quick woman, what she might do to him, and what the whole situation might do to Nancy.

* * *

"What the heck. He just hung up on me."

"Seriously? I don't know how you manage to stay around that guy."

George Fayne, Bess Marvin, and Nancy Drew all sat on a hotel room bed as the blankly stared at the blonde woman on the screen. The angry tapping of Nancy sending a text message reverberated through the room, causing George to clear her throat awkwardly.

"Um. She's pretty." Bess said quietly, rotating her body to watch Nancy properly. She looked completely enraged, or as angry as Nancy Drew possibly _could _look. The curvy blonde girl nudged her athletic cousin and shifted her eyes towards their titian haired friend.

"Nancy?" George asked quietly. Nancy ignored her, throwing her phone behind her on the bed and flopping down onto her back. She looked over at her two friends and smiled.

"I am having a really weird week and I would really really appreciate some retail therapy."

Bess let out a squeak of excitement, while George simultaneously groaned as she slapped her hand to her face.

* * *

The girls all piled out of their cab and found themselves in front of a large mall, causing Bess to make small yelping noises as she nearly jogged into the building. Nancy interlocked her right arm with George's left and shot her a crooked smile as the two followed their beloved friend inside.

Her phone beeped at her from her pocket. Nancy clasped her hands around the device and pulled it out – two new messages.

_I have a lead. Don't call. – SH_

_He's a 'Quick' boy. Hope you don't mind if I borrow him! ;)_

Nancy began to grit her teeth as she shoved her phone back into her jeans pocket, crossing her arms across her chest. Bes giggled as she turned to watch her friend.

"Nance, I thought we got rid of that shirt."

"What?" Nancy said, looking down. She wore her favorite green horse t-shirt she bought while on vacation and working (both seemed to coincide more often than not). She shrugged and smiled at Bess. "I love this shirt. I think it personifies me well."

The other girls groaned aloud in unison as they arrived in the luxurious mall. Bess led them everywhere, from expensive shops to the food court, where they devoured a plate of generic fish and chips. The thought of Sherlock meeting Samantha Quick lingered in her mind the entire time as she pondered what the woman meant by 'borrow'. She grabbed her phone again and sent a text to John.

_Where did he run off to this time? – Nancy_

_Like I'm ever aware.. I don't know. He told me to tell u that he'd call later or something. – j_

_Did he go see her? – Nancy_

_Yes – j_

She sucked in a stream of hot and frustrated air. The impulse to throw her phone across the room came into her mind, but she quickly dismissed it as her friends stood up to throw away their trash. Nancy followed suit and replaced her phone back to its place in her pants, and she loyally followed her friends around to the multiple expensive, brand name stores.

The day had been long and tiring when she finally departed from the mall and accompanied her friends back to their hotel. She hugged them goodbye and found herself walking back to Bridget's, watching as people went about their daily lives. She smiled to herself as she dug her phone out once more and dialed in the number she could never forget.

"Hi, dad." Nancy chirped into the phone, slowing down her walking pace. An excited chuckle greeted her.

"Hey sweetie! How's London treating you, are you doing alright? How's Bridget?"

"She's holding up okay," Nancy said quietly, nibbling down on her lower lip. "I'm heading over there now."

"Good, good. Any ideas so far on what happened?" He asked in an almost too happy sing-song voice. She laughed and began to walk a little quicker, her body beginning to feel tired and her legs screaming at her in exhaustion.

"I have a couple. I think it… involves mom." Nancy dropped her voice to a mumble. The line was quiet, until Carson Drew let out a raspy cough.

"Oh, okay." He responded with a choked voice. The two rarely discussed Nancy's mother, the conversation typically ending up in either tears or awkward silence. The latter seemed like the most likely situation. "I hear you broke up with Ned."

"Yeah," She sighed into the phone. "He was getting tired of everything, you know? He hated me being away."

"I can understand that part."

Nancy and her father chatted a bit longer until she reached Bridget's flat, saying goodbye into the phone and opening the door slowly. Bridget had sat herself in front of the television, watching the evening news. Nancy joined her on the couch, hoping that Samantha Quick would appear once more. She never did. A drama came on and Nancy laid her body down to rest, eventually falling asleep.

_His black locks bounced around erratically as he shook his head in frustration. She giggled playfully and nudged him with her shoulder, swinging her legs over his lap. He rolled his head to the side, a gentle smile flirting with her big doe eyes. He leaned closer._

A soft vibration against the couch woke her up. She groaned and looked up at the TV. It had been shut off, and a digital clock nearby told her it was about 3 in the morning. She squinted her eyes and looked at the phone that rested on the armrest of the couch.

Nancy rubbed her face as she reached up and grabbed her cell-phone, unlocking it and staring. A new message. She bit the inside of her cheek and opened it.

A picture of Sherlock appeared. His hair was askew, his eyes tired and expression overworked. His shirt was unbuttoned a few more than usual and a cigarette was stuffed in between his lips. She glared at the picture and scrolled down.

_He's SO much better than you'd ever imagine._


	22. Chapter 22

Sherlock Holmes opted to walk most of the way to Samantha Quick's location, not fazed by the foreboding atmosphere of the dilapidated apartment building. It was early evening, and the area seemed long abandoned in the hazy glow. Sherlock drove his hands into his pockets and stepped casually around the building, before a chilling voice drifted out an upper window: "Please, come up." He obeyed.

He emerged in the early hours of the morning, exhausted, a bit ashamed, but also quite pleased.

Bridget opened her door, flustered, after a frantic pounding had startled her awake. In the doorway stood a tall man wrapped in a dark coat and blue scarf, his hair pushed comically to one side as if he had slept with his head planted into the ground. His eyes flashed wildly as he demanded, "Where is Nancy Drew?"

* * *

Bridget gasped and wrung her hands. "Nobody here by that name," she said.

"Ma'am, your loyalty is commendable but your lying is atrocious. May I come in?" He stepped past her as he asked. "Nancy!"

The young detective walked calmly down the stairs, wearing nothing but a large t-shirt that she had slept in. Sherlock swallowed twice.

"Need something?" She asked coldly. Bridget backed up nervously and headed for the kitchen. "I'll just put some tea on then…"

"I've managed to secure exactly the evidence we needed against Miss Quick. She lured me to meet with her last night and I was able to acquire this notebook," here he revealed a small, leather bound journal from his coat pocket, "which contains no end of fascinating data. I thought—"

"Yeah, I know all about your meeting. Samantha sent me a picture of you," Nancy crossed her arms.

Sherlock paled a bit, and he studied the floor trying to recall Samantha taking a picture of him, and what sort of incriminating details had been included. He found himself a bit tripped up. "I see. Well, I hope that won't get in the way of things. You see, it had to be done, to give her the impression that she had influence over me, and it was the perfect opportunity to catch her off guard and obtain this notebook," he said quickly, his voice wavering just slightly.

Nancy looked him up and down, the way his hand trembled, his pulse was jumping in his neck, his eyes vaguely bloodshot. She felt as if she was being strangled. "You really don't have any feelings, do you?"

"_Feelings_ have nothing to do with it. Honestly, I don't see why it's any concern of yours," he answered darkly, and ran a hand roughly through his hair. "Now, will you help me decode this journal or not?"

"Not. Count me out, Holmes. I'm nobody's sidekick."

Sherlock felt his excitement plunge into hurt. He didn't understand, and he wanted to change her mind about him somehow, but he would never beg. "Fine," he said stiffly, turning around and heading out the door just as Bridget walked into the room with tea. Nancy sank into a chair and let a few stubborn tears fall before brushing them angrily away. A plan flashed its away across her mind, and she decided there was no better way to go about things at this point.

She dialed a number. "Bess? I need you to do a bit of undercover work for me. Yeah, I know. It involves flirting with cute British guys, though, so I figure you're up for it."

* * *

John Watson opened the door of 221 B to Bess Marvin, who wore a new dress from the previous day's retail therapy and her sweetest smile. "Nancy isn't here," he gulped, unable to stop himself from looking her up and down.

"I know. I'm actually here to see you," Bess said. Of all the awkward undercover work she'd done for Nancy, this wasn't particularly unpleasant, she thought, smiling at his adorably British sweater vest.

"Me?"

"Mhm. I guess Nancy and Sherlock aren't on the best of terms right now. Can I come in?" she chirped.

"Of course," John said, mentally fist pumping.

Bess strolled around the flat, finding no evidence that Sherlock was at home. Now, she thought, if I were the world's only consulting detective, where would I hide my evidence? Nancy had given her strict instructions not to leave without that notebook. She had to find out who killed Joshua, and crack open the organization that also killed her mother, and she wouldn't have Sherlock interfering with that any more. Bess was determined to help.

"I know how frustrating it is sometimes, to be friends with someone obsessed with solving mysteries," Bess shook her head, trailing her fingers along the bookshelf.

"Huh. That's quite an understatement," John laughed. "I'm not sure what's going on with Sherlock on this case, though. He's been very secretive about it all."

"Nancy too," Bess agreed, trying to make him feel camaraderie, so he might want to open up. "I wonder if they're even making any progress?"

"Well, Sherlock mentioned finding something useful last night." Bess noticed John' eyes flicker to the messy living room desk, just for a millisecond. She smiled.

"Wow, that's good, then. Wanna make me some tea?" she asked sweetly, sitting down in John's chair and kicking her legs up over the side.

"Love to," John all but squeaked, and hurried into the kitchen. Bess leaned around, making sure his back was turned, and quickly rummaged through the desk drawer until she grabbed the brown leather notebook, stuffing it swiftly into her purse and returning to her casual pose just as John reemerged from the kitchen.

"So, does this count as the first meeting of the friends-with-infuriating-detectives club?"

Bess giggled. "May there be many more meetings to come."

* * *

Back at their hotel room, Bess handed Nancy the notebook. "You're welcome," she said proudly. "I'll have you know I went through _hell_ for this," she teased.

"Bess. You kissed him didn't you," Nancy felt herself smiling despite her grave situation.

"I might have. But I didn't do that for the notebook. I did that for me."

"This is why we love you, Bess," George laughed.

Nancy sat cross legged on the floor and flipped through the notebook. "It's written in some sort of code," she noted, mentally flicking through all the cyphers she could think of. "And these colored lines…they probably match with the subway routes. This notebook has the answers to getting into that locked door, I know it. I just hope I can get there before Samantha notices it's missing…"

"Nancy, are you sure you want to go down there again?" George cautioned.

"I have to. I have to find out what happened to Joshua and my mom," she said with newfound determination. "Look, it's nothing but a reverse substitution cypher that switches every other letter." Her eyes flicked over the pages wildly. "This journal will crack this case wide open, and lead me right to the answers I need. I should really thank Sherlock…" she sighed. "I'm going in alone. Hold the fort up here in case anyone comes after Sherlock or John or Bridget trying to get to me, okay?"

Bess and George nodded gravely. There was no use arguing with Nancy when she was on the edge of solving a mystery.

* * *

Nancy wrapped herself tightly in a tan coat, turned up the collar to the nighttime wind, and stepped down the stairs into the subway tunnel. She had spent all day translating the journal and knew the route to the door, as well as the combination. Part of her felt guilty for stealing the journal from Sherlock, but the part of her that had been hurt by him was certain that he didn't deserve to continue investigating this case. It was hers, and he was nothing but a complication.

When had Nancy Drew become so cold?

She sighed and blinked hard, reminding herself to focus. She had been in dangerous situations plenty of times, but this might just be the most reckless. This time she had something to prove; to herself, to her mother's memory, to him.

The tunnels were completely deserted at this time of night, save from a few homeless lurking in distant corners. Nancy pulled out her penlight and flicked it discretely down the corridor. And eerie wind threw strands of her hair across her face, and she flicked it out of the way, annoyed. No one was to be seen, so she stepped down onto the narrow ledge beside the tracks and began the long trek through the tunnel.

"John, we've been robbed!"

"What are you talking about? I've been here all day," John said, with more patience than usual. In fact, his pleasant mood jostled Sherlock a bit. He looked the doctor over with a discerning eye. "Why do you have that face?" Sherlock demanded, walking straight over the coffee table and leaning very close to John. John closed his laptop and met Sherlock's gaze.

"This is the only face I've ever had Sherlock."

"No! There! That's your I-just-snogged-a-pretty-girl face!"

"I do not have an I-just-snogged-a-pretty-girl face."

"Go and look in the mirror because I assure you, you do."

John's face flushed and he laughed nervously, rubbing his hand over his forehead. "Alright, so what if I did? What does it matter?"

"It matters because I was robbed, and you had a woman over!"

"Oh come no, Bess wouldn't have…what's been taken?"

"The notebook. Samantha Quick's notebook."

John's face fell. He suddenly felt very used. He choked on his words and closed his mouth instead, defeated.

"Bess? Really John? How could you have not seen what she was doing?"

"Oh shut up," John said quietly. Sherlock checked himself. "Sorry, John. I am. But I think I know exactly where to find that notebook. Stay here," he ordered, and tried not to look condescending as he gave John a sympathetic look, and grabbed his coat. It was time to reclaim his case from that judgmental little American girl.

* * *

Nancy huddled over the notebook, mumbling to herself as she translated the code from diagram on the page to the strange lock on the door deep in the tunnel. She waiting until a train moved past to open the door, using the nose as a cover up of any announcing of her entrance. In the screeching gust of wind that nearly knocked Nancy down onto the tracks, she switched on the last number, slid the last colored line into place, and the door clicked open with a grinding mechanism. Only darkness lay beyond. The girl detective drew herself up straighter and stepped into the shadows, turning off her flashlight and feeling her way along the corridor.

After a short distance, she came into a hollowed out cavern lit by battery-powered lanterns hanging off the walls. A quick scan of the room showed no signs of inhabitants, so Nancy pushed onward into the room. She was floored with the discovery. This was definitely the base for a criminal operation. There were tables littered with research, newspaper clippings, and hastily taken photographs, and the walls were lined with boxes stacked high containing what appeared to be explosives, ammunition, and various chemicals in glass bottles. On one wall, there was a spread of evidence as one might see in a police station, connected with red thread and covered with scribbled notes in angry, slanted writing. Nancy whipped out her phone and began snapping pictures of the wall, her heart pounding as she realized she was looking at the planned targets of murders and grand heists. She began shuffling through the papers on the desks, and thumbing through disorganized file folders stuffed in cardboard boxes, lighting them up with the glow of her phone. Her heart leapt into her throat when she found it—a file on Joshua. There were candid photographs, notes about him knowing too much, witnessing two separate operations, details on how and when he was to be taken care of. "Oh, God," she murmured to herself, snapping more pictures and deciding it was about time she high tailed it out of there.

"See anything you like?"

Nancy's blood turned to ice in her veins. "Samantha." She turned around slowly, putting her hands up. Her mind spun wildly for a way out. Samantha Quick wore all black and all but blended into the shadows, aside from her striking blonde hair and blood red smirk. "I knew you'd come and see me soon enough. And now that you're here, please, _stay_."

Samantha shoved a sharp-smelling rag over Nancy's face, and after just a moment of frantic struggling, her body fell limp onto the cold floor.

* * *

"Drew," hissed a voice. Deep. Familiar. Strangely comforting. "Drew!"

Nancy blinked her eyes open, her head aching and vision blurry. The distant sound of a subway train rattled her, and above her head a single lightbulb rigged from a long wire tacked to the wall swung back and forth, back and forth. She gasped in a breath, remembering where she was.

"God," said the voice beside her, sounding relieved that she was awake. "You're a complete idiot, you know that?"

"What?" Nancy slurred, turning to look at the source of the voice. "Sherlock? What are you doing here? Ugh, perfect." The two were alone in the small room, each sitting in a rusty metal chair, their hands and ankles tied with heavy rope behind the chair back and to the legs. "What's going on here?"

"I followed you. Shortly after Samantha got to you, I allowed myself to be caught as well."

"You…allowed yourself to be caught? Why?"

"I had to see what she was up to. Stay on top of things, you know?" Sherlock said quickly, trying to cover up the fact that his face full of chloroform was not, in fact, intended.

"Guess it wouldn't be the first time you've succumbed to her," Nancy grumbled, trying to wiggle the chair, but knew she couldn't move without tipping it over.

"I never knew anyone to take drug use so personally," Sherlock said, feeling very weary as he tried work the rope further down his wrists. There was an extended moment of silence, as reality suddenly dawned on Nancy like a bucket of cold water.

"Hold on. Drug use?"

"Yes of course Nancy, are you not still upset because Miss Quick enticed me to use again? Ignoring of course, the fact that it was the perfect opportunity for me to catch her off guard and steal the notebook…my God, what are you staring at? You've made your opinion perfectly—"

"Sherlock. I thought you had…had _slept with her_."

He didn't react for a long moment, his mind turning backwards over everything that had already been said, and how it had been misconstrued. Then Sherlock dissolved into throaty laughter.

"It isn't funny," Nancy grumbled, trying to look angry, but his laughter was contagious.

"A bit out of character for me, wouldn't you think, Drew?" Sherlock quieted a bit and looked at her. She met his eyes with a weak smile, noticing the way they glowed softly in the changing light from the swinging bulb. "Guess I let my stupid feelings get the better of me."

"Feelings are a natural part of humanity. For everyone except me, of course," he winked.


	23. Chapter 23

Finally! I give you: the epic conclusion! Half by Mel, half by Ray :3 Please visit ** letyoursoul . tumblr .com**/**tagged/drewlock** for fanart, videos, and general fangirling over this pairing. Thank you all for the reviews and support during this project! (There will definitely be sequels.) Without further ado, chapter 23:

* * *

"So, drug use." A small voice piped from behind Sherlock. He rolled his eyes and leaned back as far as he could in his chair, grasping Nancy's hands in his. He wiggled his fingers under her bonds and attempted to wrench them off, but to no avail; they were tied much too tight. She reciprocated his actions, but even her small and nimble fingers couldn't untie the cords. They both exchanged sighs and paused momentarily, before Sherlock clicked his tongue against the side of his mouth.

"Yes. I'm guessing you want the full story, then." He stated. She offered no response until a laugh escaped her.

"Sorry, I nodded my head but you… obviously can't see… um, go on." Nancy stuttered. "Tactful, Drew." She spat under her breath, a gesture obviously not intended for Sherlock's ears. He chuckled low and deeply, rolling his head back to stare at the ceiling.

"It started in university; that's how these things happen, you know. John sort of referenced it earlier, you might recall." Nancy made a small noise of realization behind him, the one he typically heard her make when she solved something. He smiled to himself. "You know how my brain gets. You experience it too, you just have a handle on it. It moves a million kilometers a minute and I can't control it. Drugs helped me keep my brain going. I thought it'd help keep the insanity at bay, but it really just made everything worse.

"I found myself using a lot, most days, actually, and I was a total wreck. Mycroft tried to help but it didn't work out so well. I wrote music, I read a lot, made lots of homeless friends… I didn't snort it, I shot it; made its way to the brain quicker that way. I was very lonely and I finally got myself off the stuff. I've used since then maybe once. John's helped a lot… John… John! Nancy! Do you think you could attempt to reach my phone from where you are?"

"What?" The girl stumbled over her words. She was so intrigued in the story about his past that her mind completely disconnected with reality. She quickly wiped away a stray tear on her shoulder and rotated her body as much as she could towards him. "Where is it?"

"Coat pocket to your right. Here," Sherlock grunted as he hopped his chair over towards her, using his feet that were still tied while placing his pocket underneath her hands. "Okay, lean back."

Nancy did as she was told, fumbling inside his pocket as she precariously leaned back in her chair. She felt the cool object and tapped it against his side as she pulled it out of his pocket.

"Beautiful job, you. Now hold it up facing me. I'm going to try and text him."

She felt a few hairs tickling her wrist and snorted to herself as she realized what Sherlock was doing – using his nose to make the text. She only wished that she could see the scene unfolding behind her. "Why aren't you calling him?"

"Because," He grunted out. "Because he's at work and won't answer his phone. This will have to do."

He leaned back up and let her slide the phone back into his pocket. He hopped his body a bit closer to her side so he could look at her, a crooked smile appearing on his face. Nancy likened him to a five year old most days; he never quite acted his age. The sound of clicking heels distracted the two of them. The door to the small, cement room opened and they were embraced by a floral perfume and bright red dress.

"Didn't I tell you not to move?" The raspy voice groaned. Samantha Quick made her entrance, slamming the door behind her.

"You know, as kidnappings go, this one is rather pathetic," Sherlock taunted. Nancy grinned; she was the one facing Samantha. "Beyond pathetic," she added, "And I have been kidnapped so many times it's embarrassing."

Samantha's lipstick-caked smile pulled into a thin line. "Indeed you have. Yet you wandered right into this trap." Nancy knew she meant more than just the tunnels in the tube, and she sensed Sherlock tensing behind her. "Beyond pathetic."

"I don't think you know what you're doing, Miss Quick," Sherlock jumped in, eager to keep her talking. The longer she took to get started, the more time John had to bring help. "Honestly, you left my phone in my pocket."

Nancy's eyes widened. He was completely stupid. Why would he point that out to her? It didn't make any sense to her, and yet part of her strongly believed—maybe just hoped very hard—that there was a plan behind it.

"So I did. How foolish of me," the woman twittered a cringe-worthy laugh and plucked the phone out of his pocket. Nancy closed her eyes and wished she could see Sherlock's face. Over-confidence, Nancy thought, trying to make deductions the way Sherlock did. He's playing up the fact that most of her decisions thus far have been centered on theatricality rather than tact. Of course, she left the phone there on purpose to dangle hope in front of them just to take it away while they watched, after they had awoken. Nancy smiled. Yes, he definitely had a plan.

"They're tracking us right now you know," Sherlock warned ominously, his voice deep and commanding. Nancy heard the bait in it.

"Stop your smiling, Drew," Samantha hissed, grabbing the detective's face between her finger and her thumb and plucking the phone out of Sherlock's pocket with the other hand. She waved the device in front of Nancy's eyes, and Sherlock grabbed a bit too frantically at Nancy's hand, enough to worry her a bit. He tapped his fingers against her, like he was counting off. His tension relaxed as Samantha stepped around so they could both see her. "In a moment, I'm going to get information out of you both. All the information you'd never dream of giving. But I have both of you, and I created you. I created this, so that it would matter. So that you'd do anything to save the other." Sherlock shifted uncomfortably against his bonds. "Five," Sherlock muttered, as if to himself. Then, a moment later, much quieter, "Four…"

"See this, you little idiots? This is your last connection to the outside world, being severed before any trace could possibly go through," Quick hissed, glowing with triumph as she raised the phone, prepared to slam it onto the concrete floor. However, she never got the chance, because, perfectly on cue, Sherlock's phone exploded in her hand, with a rather impressive boom and spattering of shrapnel.

Samantha screamed and scampered backward against the wall, holding a shaking, bloodied hand up in front of her face as she reeled from the unexpected blow. Sherlock burst into childish laughter, which only made their kidnapper shriek with a greater, angrier intensity. Nancy scrunched up her face and tried not to look at the mangled fingers—or what was left of them.

"What have you done!?" Quick screamed, and tried to grab the gun that was strapped to her thigh, but cringed in pain when she tried to wrap her hand around it, so instead she made an awkward fumbling motion before collapsing to the ground over the scattered pile of phone pieces.

And then there was the sound of distinct footsteps, rushing nearer with conviction. _Well darn,_ Nancy thought, _here comes Samantha's back up_. After all, there was a whole tribe of criminals working from this base, and there were just two detectives. And they were tied up. And no longer had a phone. Perfect.

But it wasn't Samantha's backup—she had isolated Nancy and Sherlock and kept them all to herself. Her trophies, her game. No, this was backup of a much more welcome kind.

"Bess!" Nancy yelled, relief washing over her as the sunny-faced friend whipped around the corner and into the room. Shortly behind her, Dr. Watson appeared, and Sherlock made a strangled noise of surprise in greeting. Bringing up the rear, George put down the phone she was studying, blinking with a tracker guiding them to the room. She was the first to speak.

"Looks like you're a bit outnumbered, huh Quick?"

Nancy grinned at her normally-quiet George making her very first jibe at a bad guy. One could even call her proud.

Samantha made a sort of snarling sound and clutched her injured hand to her body.

"Geez, what happened here!" Bess squeaked, and pulled John by the cuff of his sleeve over to help untie Sherlock and Nancy, while George yanked the gun away from Quick and trained it on her, though she made no move to fight back. The woman was slumped in the familiar pose of defeat. John bent down and threw the ropes off with shaking hands. "John, we're fine," Sherlock said, his voice gentle. He seemed heavy with relief but also guilt. Nancy let out a tight breath as her hands and legs were freed and she stood up, staring down at Samantha. John told Sherlock that Lestrade was on his way with his best.

"The real Samantha Quick," Nancy hissed, vindictive. The woman grimaced and slinked further against the wall. "Leading the group that took my mother from me, trying to destroy me a second time. I don't know what you heard about Sherlock and me, but you were so wrong. We aren't alone or desperate or mad with drive. You can't trap people into feeling something. You can't design some twisted power-play and then expect it to become a reality just the way you intended. Looks like you had no idea who you were dealing with."

Nancy felt a strong hand slide into hers, and held on confidently, assuredly, unafraid. "Not sure I knew, either," he said, softly enough that only Nancy could hear.

What felt like an eternity later, under the not-actually-so-comforting hold of trauma blankets, Sherlock wrapped Nancy in his arms under the blue and red flash of police lights. From the corner of their eyes they could see John doing the same to Bess, and George trying not to laugh. They leaned against Lestrade's patrol car, while the others busied themselves with paperwork and questions. It was going to be a long night, and they decided they deserved a moment's peace.

"As I'm sure you noticed, I didn't actually text John," Sherlock said matter-of-factly. Nancy nodded against his shoulder, pulling back to look up at him, trying to read the strain behind his pale eyes. "I figured that out about the time your phone blew up, yeah."

"I activated the self-destruct count down."

"You are not a real person."

"I am most certainly—"

"You literally programed a self-destruct feature into your phone. Sherlock, seriously?"

Sherlock studied her for a moment in confusion, then let the words sink in. He started to realize the absurdity. Started to see himself through the eyes of a redheaded girl detective who was just as insane as he was, but somehow so much more grounded. So much more practical than even he was in all his logic and science. He dissolved into laughter. "Seriously," he laughed out.

"Brilliant," she answered, laughing with him now. "But I guess it's a good thing there was a real tracking device in my phone, which was in my bag that Samantha took."

Sherlock sobered up quickly. "That would explain that, then."

"What's wrong? We did it, Holmes."

"_You_ did it, Drew. George, Bess, John—they did it. I was arrogant and couldn't allow myself to ask for help."

"Don't be stupid. None of this would have been possible without you. Samantha even knew she needed both of us. We needed to…" Nancy looked away, suddenly flushed bright red. "We needed to meet. I think we were always meant to."

Nancy couldn't read the expression that settled over Sherlock's sharp features then, but she knew that it stirred deeper parts of herself than she was even aware existed. So when his lips pressed to hers again, it felt like the anticipated resolution of a suspended chord, like the sight of home after being away far too long, like the perfect sentence ending the perfect story.

Endings. She clung to him a bit too tightly, as the knowledge crept over her that she lived thousands of miles from London, that soon a whole ocean would stretch between them. Sherlock seemed to understand at least this sentiment, and he wrapped his arms tighter around her waist, removing any space left between them. He pulled his lips from hers just enough to say, "It's illogical to believe in destiny, Nancy."

She was about to protest, when he continued, "But I am inclined to be illogical just this once."


End file.
